


Grain_Crain's Whumptober 2019

by Grain_Crain



Series: Whumptober 2019 [1]
Category: Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: Blood, Body Horror, Character Study, F/F, Family Feels, Gen, Gore, Halloween, Horror, M/M, Nightmares, Whumptober 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2020-11-23 11:28:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 28
Words: 28,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20891378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grain_Crain/pseuds/Grain_Crain
Summary: These are short ficlets that I am writing forWhumptober 2019. I'm posting them on my Tumblr but also putting them here as archives of my own   ̶ay̶y̶y̶.





	1. Day 1 - Shaky Hands (Doc)

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to keep them under 500 words but damn. That's hard.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doc trying to dissect an infected corpse during Outbreak.

During the Outbreak phase, there wasn’t a place for those who died while being infected by the virus; so the only option that Dr Macintosh and Doc had was a portable medical tent that’s under a strict supervision. Doc used to work until late at night, so he pulled an all nighter to extract samples and run some tests that may result in discovering vaccines. At times he felt ghastly chill while dissecting a decomposing and grotesque heap of flesh that once was human, but he refused to be shaken up when innocent lives are at stake. **  
**

That night wasn’t different from any other 3 am. He always had new specimen to analyse, and the scalpel in his hand stayed sharp and unwavering. As he ran the blade from solar plexus to navel, the foul gas released through the freshly cut gap. Thanks to the hazmat suit or he would have vomited due to the stench.

“H-”_ Did he hear a whisper?_ Doc looked around but the only noise he could think of was a stream of weak wind escaping the dead body. He shrugged and resumed on incision, then from the corner of his eyes, he catches a glimpse of movement. Not behind him or front; below him where the gnarled arm should be stiff with rigor mortis.

“Impossible.” Doc took a huge step back. He wasn’t hallucinating from lack of sleep or excessive caffeine. The fingers that no longer resemble anything humanoid were bending outwards, and then snapped in angles that defied gravity. That popping and crackling from rigid knuckles reminded Doc of dry winter branches breaking under light pressure, except branches don’t usually reanimate back to life and rattle the whole examination table. A pair of shaking hands scraped against the sheetless pan of stainless steel, creating a continuous clatter that echoed around the room.

Doc rushed to switch on a transceiver and immediately put himself connected to Ash, “Cohen, Cohen. I need your response ASAP.”

“Cohen here. What’s the emergency?” Thankfully she replied.

“I’ve got a situation, possibly Code Red.” No matter how hard Doc tried, he had to raise his voice over the maddening ruckus happening next to him.

“Roger. Where’s the location?” 

“Tent Area MED, the third one.” Doc quickly turned around to check on the body and he swore his heart leapt by miles at the sight of a man sitting up right at that very moment, “Holy- Holy shit. How?” He couldn’t control the breathing and quiver as his blood ran cold.

“Kateb? What’s happening?” Through the transceiver, Doc heard Tachanka barking at the recruits to head out.

“I- I need to-” Doc put down the device, sprinted towards the gate, ripped it open and clammed it shut. He had to wait for the sterile solution to shower over the hazmat, but seeing a humanoid shadow looming over the thinly opaque layer of tent didn’t help him to be patient, especially when he heard another stream of sigh that definitely wasn’t from a dead body. As soon as he was safe to be outside of the tent, he waited to see if the mutated corpse would follow by ripping its way through. Then he heard nothing. A few more minutes passed but still nothing. Doc stood in the same exact place until Tachanka arrived with recruits in hazmat suits. A walk back into the tent raised tension, and yet it was anticlimactic as they found the body laying flat on the floor, only a few steps away from the examination table.

“Did you move that?” Tachanka poked at it with a tip of his gun.

“No, but shoot it again on the head. And the shoulder, hips, knees.” Doc refused to take a chance by believing that it might be dead for good this time.

“With pleasure.” Tachanka nodded and proceeded to obliterate the specimen’s brain and joints. It made no sounds, and yet Doc asked Tachanka to stay by his side until he finished what he planned to do that night. Fortunately and also for some odd reason, the body never came back to life again.


	2. Day 2 - Explosion (Recruit, Thermite, Sledge, Bomber)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You are a recruit who is doing terrorist hunt with Sledge and Thermite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: GORE CONTENT.  
Please don’t read if you don’t like such genre.

“Hey, how many are there left?” Thermite greets Sledge and the other as he enters the kitchen area. He has a grazed cheek and thigh area slightly damp with near misses, so the man is healthy and managing well against those terrorists.**  
**

“One. I think we can let the recruit handle these one.” Sledge bumps a shoulder against the newest addition to the team; that’s you.

“Leave it to me, sir!” 

“Good, but leave the ‘sir’ out.” Thermite chuckles and reloads another magazine into his rifle. You hesitate whether you should insist on paying them a proper respect, to which Sledge assures that formality hinders efficient communication. 

“It’s okay, mate. Just focus.” Sledge shines a curt smile and that helps your heart to feel at ease. After some rest and short discussion on where to sweep, you follow them to survey the next area on the ground floor. Nothing in Blue and Sunrise Bar, so they must be upstairs. Thermite sends a drone up and they receive feedback, a ping on where the last terrorist is.

“A bomber,” Thermite whispers, “Alright, you’re up. We will stand right behind you, so don’t panic.” You give him a nod and shuffle to creep up quietly. There stands a plump blob of white, hissing through the gas mask and dressed in an enclosed bodysuit. The bomber hasn’t noticed a thing, which gives you time to aim for head. Deep breath in and out; you find yourself matching your rhythm with the bomber’s. One pull of a trigger never felt so daring, nerve wrecking and yet entitled. A legalised murder against a group that killed hundreds of innocent. What makes a human to agree in joining a cult that cause genocide? Who wreck them like this? How did they fall so low?

Seconds of doubt lead to a disaster. Bomber turns and their face shield reflects an image of you as a frozen statue in black. Cells in your body shiver in horror as the bomber charges while making a series of beeping clicks.

“Recruit, shoot now!” Thermite yells and you obey. The trigger is finally pulled but it’s a spray that allows the bomber to inch closer rather than have them drop dead. Step forward from the bomber has your heels staggering. Heart beats escalate to the point you’re nauseous.

“Fuck, stand back!” Sledge pulls you, a terror-stricken newbie, by the collar and slugs five bullets. Only three punctures through the face shield and that darned suicidal lunatic is still running at full speed. That dreadful red light is a few steps away, close enough to draw shadows on the stairs. You swear this will be the many cause to your high blood pressure in the future when you grow old and senile; that is if you manage to survive such life or death situation. Thermite yanks you back to the first floor and Sledge follows closely; you can marvel at the miracle of not falling down despite the desperate jumble of footsteps. Everything is a slow motion for you as your eyes are glued on the bomber. Through the cracked visor, there you can see a pair of heavy-lidded eyes soaked in blood. Those wrinkles between the nose bridge raises questions on whether the bomber is frowning in hatred or pain. 

Then there’s one last beep before the terrorist’s stomach bulges, evidently forcing those anguished eyes shoot upward where you can see the whites rather than the pupils. Deafening boom blasts an impact on the eardrums and a momentary high-pitched rings stops your brain from functioning. Hell, you wonder if your chest is collapsing from the thunderous thumps of your own vitals. Those sound within you is the only wake up call to gain consciousness, but you might have had a jumpscare from a splatter of thick liquid that’s more than just blood on your goggles.

“Hey, up we go,” Thermite pulls you up from the ground, “Are you able to walk back to the truck?”

“Y, yeah.” Your reply comes out shaky and somewhat muffled. Muscles feel limp from bracing yourself, but hey. You’re alive.

“Good. Go get your ears checked.” Thermite points toward the main entrance, where the transport units are. As you stumble towards outside, you take one last look behind. Sledge and Thermite are crouching next to the crumpled bag in red with white tinges. Between the two men lays a blackened lump and the helmet that the bomber was wearing. It has a gaping gash with greyish dots that would have looked more like off-white if they aren’t charred. 

“Shite,” Sledge murmurs, “Can’t identify this one, huh.”

“We’ll have the clean up team haul what’s left in the hazmat suit. I’m pretty sure there’s still some bits sloshing in here.” Thermite taps on the crumpled bag that’s leaking fluids. There’s a glimpse of other stuff that looks like tubes and you wonder whether it’s organic.

“Okay. I’ll grab the leg there,” Sledge pulls it out from the bush that has blotches of red, “Are you still here? Go on. This isn’t a job for you.” Sledge quickly throws the limb on top of the bag and ushers you out. Hence you leave, thankful at the fact that you are spared from rearranging human remains at a constructional level. 

However. 

The guilt of not shooting the bomber may haunt you, along with the vivid imagery that has the bomber’s eye sockets ejecting its contents. It’ll stay with you and that’s the price you pay for having too many thoughts while on mission.


	3. Day 3 - Delirium (Mute)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mute is in a situation that he didn't expect.

I am in- I’m in the infirmary. Seems like it. Judging by what I wear, I must be. Funny how I’m not wearing white gowns and nothing underneath like movies show us, but people should know movies are fictions anyway. I almost forgot about the clothes that I used to wear rather than the training gear that Rainbow gives us. Wait, why am I not in the training gear? Isn’t this the facility in Hereford? Huh. I must have applied for a holiday, but then why am I in the infirmary. Is this a prank set up by James? That fucking bastard. Always joking that I should know everything since I’m a bookworm. Maybe he should read more himself and get smarter or summat. **  
**

Now just wait a minute. Why am I here? In a hospital bed of all places. I better check what day this is. Where did I put my phone? How come there’s no one around me? 

“Hello?” Goddamn, I sound like a smoker. It hurts to cough, “Hello?”

“Yes?” Whoa, that’s a tall guy. Even taller than Seamus, I reckon. Better as a basketball player than a nurse.

“Can I have my phone, please?” Uh oh. He doesn’t look pleased. Why, though? Wasn’t I polite?

“Mr Chandar, you still have a few more hours left until your ban. Is there anything that you’d like to watch on television while you wait?” What ban? _What ban?_

“What ban?” Blimey. I haven’t sounded like a confused child ever since I left middle school.

“I know that you’re aware,” Is he sighing at me? “But let me remind you that you aren’t quite fond of any portable communication devices.”

“No, but that’s the problem. I can’t remember much at all,” And I’m being genuine, you prick, “Oh wait, I do remember some things. Things like I shouldn’t be here at all, there must be some sort of mistake that I’m here. Make a phone call to the Hereford branch and you will know who I am. Or even search Mark Chandar on your database and you will see that I’m part of the SAS who is currently working with the team Rainbow. You will know who I am, but just make a phone call or give me my damn phone and I’ll sort it out.”

“It’s understandable. Please have some more rest until your regular check up.” 

“Why do I need-” A regular check up? But I’m not hurt anywhere. Am I missing something? “How long have I been in here?”

“A few months.” What! Is he pulling my legs? No fucking way. Why on earth am I trapped in this place for months? The only thing I did was the training course with James and those recruits. Yeah, that was at Hereford, I do remember that part. 

“I need to talk to Mike Baker now.” Fuck, my legs are stiff. I don’t care though, I need to get the fuck off from this bed and walk away from this shithole.

“Mr Chandar, it’s not the time yet. Please lay down.” Is he seriously grabbing me by my arm? Oh no, hell you don’t. 

“Let go of me.” I’m not about to thrash down on civilians but if he doesn’t let me go, I’ll have to scare him a little.

“Do not attempt to resist.” He’s got some grip. 

“Let go!” It’s his fault that elbowed him on his jaw. Look at him falling down! I better leave before he wakes up. Oh shit, it’s chilly out here and there are so many rooms in this corridor! Where can I go to the receptionist? There must be a misunderstanding of why I’m here as a patient.

“Catch him!” What the fuck! How come there are so many freaking guards here? Am I in prison? My legs are already tired and I don’t even know what’s going on and why I’m being chased. Where’s Mike? Where’s Seamus?

“Aim!” Is that- IS THAT A GUN? I’m gonna be shot? What the fuck is that for? There’s no way that I can outrun a bullet! HOLY MOTHER OF MARY THAT STINGS! It stings. IT stings so bad it stings mum help oh-

“Carry him gently. He’s just a patient.” Oh, that nurse is up again. Why is he looking down at me like that? Don’t you dare pity me. I didn’t fight for this country to be pitied at. I didn’t mean any of this to happen. I don’t wanna fall asleep just yet. I don’t want to see James. I can’t beg for his forgiveness just yet-

* * *

“Looks like he’s finally calmed down. I think we need to get him into a restraining bed.” The nurse massages his chin that’ll bruise for sure.

“I don’t know. I don’t think it’s necessary to treat him like a lunatic when it was just an accident.” Another hospital staff stands by him with a cigarette in his mouth.

“But he still become crazy when there’s any kind of cellphone that reminds him of that day. I heard they use old Nokia for some kind of bombs but even a sight of smartphone gives him meltdowns.” 

“Do you think it was really accidental? I heard that he planned on using the real bomb during the training, not the pretend-model.” The hospital staff looks around as if he is scared of such rumour.

“Don’t know, don’t care. What’s important is that he killed the other guy during the training and tells other people that he didn’t know. And then apparently he knew, but thought it was all a big joke. I don’t know what’s the truth,” The nurse also takes a drag from their shard cigarette, “I feel bad for that dead guy’s daughter, though. It was something- Porter.”

“Yeah me too.”


	4. Day 4 - Human Shield (Caveira, Mira, Shield Operators)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caveira saw something crazy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: GORE CONTENT.  
Please don’t read if you don’t like such genre.

Caveira was fully aware that’s a dream. Her mind is safe and sound, so she wasn’t going crazy anytime soon. She merely questioned whether she always had been this imaginative, or else this could be the subconscious that’s been somehow dormant in her mind.**  
**

See, the dream started in the lounge area where she was snatching a cigar away from Capitão. Mira then paged her to come down by her workshop, so she went while ignoring the old man’s sulk. The Research and Development area is usually well lit but it was dark this time. Hence Caveira didn’t expect the place to light up within a second she stepped in.

“You’re late! I can’t wait to show you my latest invention.” Mira was chipper than usual. That’s already an alarm bell, more so as Mira seemed to be the only one under a spotlight.

Caveira didn’t want to appear scared, and yet her steps were cautiously slow rather than brisk, “Fine. What is it?”

“Watch.” Mira unveiled a blanket and revealed Le Roc from its backside. 

“Okay? Did you show this to Touré?” 

“He’s already here!” Mira’s grin stretched way too far. 

_Bitch, where?_ “I don’t see him.” 

“Right here, silly.” Mira tapped on the gigantic shield and it turned around. Caveira squinted and wondered if she is supposed to know what’s different about it, then her jaw dropped when she saw it. Instead of the protective screen, there’s a skin. A human skin stretched out to fit the frame, nailed in places but some bits were hanging loose as if its too thick to be punctured. There were eyes, nose, mouth, hair and most of all, the function to speak despite not having any apparent voice box or lungs.

“_Bonjour_.” That’s him. Gilles Touré was smiling at her just like that afternoon with a cup of mocha in his hand. Except he had no limbs and inched closer to her by scraping on the floor while standing vertically.

“Álvarez, what the fuck is this?” 

“A soldier that won’t die from bullets. A sentient shield,” Mira grabbed Caveira by her wrist with an iron grip, “Look at my other prototypes.” 

“Like hell I’m going to-” Caveira wriggled to break free but it was futile against Mira who wouldn’t budge. No matter how much she thrashed, it was only the Spaniard’s arm moving and nothing else. Mira was locked in place as if she was a broken gif with partial movement. 

“Look. Here he comes.” There was a familiar clinks and chunks behind her; there she saw 

the Flash Shield that had legs attached, fully in jeans that’s caked with blood. In fact, it was Blitz with a body that’s his Flash Shield. Head and arms were barely holding in place when he tried to reach his back for the button to unleash the bright light on his chest.

“Hey!” There was another set of metallic beats behind her, “Try interrogate me now!” Fuze came in the view. His headgear was sewed on the screen and the Matryoshka acted like spider legs that carried his body of steel plate. And that headgear wasn’t empty either. It had volume. Bits of muscles were hanging off from the neck part.

“Fucking shitty dream,” Caveira scowled, “What now? This better not be the best thing you throw at me.”

“Oh, okay.” Mira pointed towards a corner and without further ado, Clash showed up. Well, more like her CCE Shield, the clear screen that allowed Caveira to see through the intestines and bones behind it. The Brit had an enlarged head, to which her mouth engulfed the top half of the shield as if she was ready to take a big bite out of a huge ice pop. 

“Damn.” With a single remark, Caveira snapped out of the nightmare. She found herself sweaty and tense everywhere despite not feeling too phased by the visual horror, and yet seeing her lover sleeping in peace calmed down the thumps under the rib cages.

“Taina?” Clash, thankfully all in shape and human form, mumbled as she stirred in mattress, “What’s up, babe?”

“Nothing,” Caveira planted a kiss on that smooth bald head and relieved at the texture of flesh rather than glossy acrylic sheet, “Go back to sleep.” She checked the phone and it’s 3am; still too early in the morning to call Mira and see if she’s about to become a mad scientist, but a good time to sneak into the GEO dormitory and perform a simple surveillance. Caveira told herself to not get caught up by some silly imagination, but she wanted to make sure just in case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Inspired by this picture](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fcdn.discordapp.com%2Fattachments%2F394672907206393856%2F629481594905690123%2Fcecb6fc7bdea2ffb4305553b0f119ce8.jpg&t=MzY5MjYzNWI4MGU2NzRmNWNhOTAxYWQ4ZmVjZWY4MDQzZWI2ZDhmMixNdENrUk80aA%3D%3D&b=t%3AGd2fRO0qMwygFT0hlvtLkQ&p=https%3A%2F%2Fgrain-crain-drain.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F188122894163%2Fday-4-human-shield&m=0).


	5. Day 5 - Gunpoint (Dokkaebi/Hibana, Ying)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dokkaebi, Hibana and Ying serves justice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought of something lighthearted this time.

“Hey, ladies!” A cat caller is painfully common in any kind of streets at night. Dokkaebi squints at half-assed whistles while Hibana and Ying ushers her to ignore such remarks.

“Come on! Would it kill to smile?” His friends are also insistent, even more so when the three operators walk further away from busy area of main road. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” The three men have caught up and scoots to block the way, “You know, we were being all gentle and nice back there.” They are in costumes already even though it’s only early October. A literal bunch of clowns.

“Oh, my god,” Dokkaebi’s crinkle deepens, “I thought clowns were supposed to be funny. What are these bozos?”

“She’s a feisty one!” The fattest of them chuckles, “I’m going to let her blow my horns.” In dim lamplight, he pulls out a pocket knife and let it glint.

Hibana notices the weapon and sighs, “Gentlemen, you really don’t want to be doing this.”

“Ho ho, look at her! I like it when they are nice and tame like this.” The one who cat called also pulls something out. A gun. 

“Is that a real one?” Ying asks without a smile.

“Hell yeah, it is. Now just follow us and a blowjob will do.” He gleefully aims at her. The confirmation wires Ying into full action where she bends her legs to gain momentum, and then instantly spring toward the man, striking his neck with her elbow. She rips the gun off from gagging man, unlocks safety catch and shoves the muzzle in eye hole of the cheap clown mask. 

“Here’s a blow. Sadly no job for you, but I guess that’s your life.” She smirks at the fact that these jokers weren’t even going to shoot.

“Bitch, killing is illegal!” The fatso lunges to swing his knife at them. Dokkaebi steps in and shoots her leg to plant a kick right in the middle of his chest. He gasps in pain and drops on all fours, which gives Dokkaebi a chance to stretch her leg up high and snap it down to slam her heel on the back of his head. 

“Oh shit.” The third one, a lean fellow in Nike, dares to sprint away. He leaps and climbs a wall, vaults over a few staircases and quickly unlocks the van with a remote key. Such agility that’s on par with an amateur [traceur](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fcdn.discordapp.com%2Fattachments%2F406025125834522636%2F629973176126013440%2Funknown.png&t=M2U2MjVkMjAzMmI5YzQ4MjI3YWIxMjY1MmEyYTI4YmVhYjBhZjc2NyxBRlFYT2FHRA%3D%3D&b=t%3AGd2fRO0qMwygFT0hlvtLkQ&p=https%3A%2F%2Fgrain-crain-drain.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F188145063203%2Fday-5-gunpoint&m=0). Just as he throws the sliding door open, someone lands on his back with two feet, rendering him breathless and crumpled on soggy pants and duffel bags. 

“Do us a favour and clean up your act,” Hibana bends his arms in angles that’ll hurt if he exerts force, “And your car. It’s filthy.” 

Half an hour later, the police officers find these perverts half naked because their pants are used to bind their arms. Their wallets are laying on the floor, revealing the driver’s licenses and the gun is taken apart piece by pieces. 

“Not you guys again,” One of the officers groan, “You’ve been arrested for the same shit last Halloween.”

“We were assaulted!” They shout in unison.

“We’ll see about that. The higher ups have heard about you from some military personnel and let me tell you. They aren’t happy with you and our department for letting you off so easy last time.”

* * *

This is more like chapter 5.5.

[mirrorworldangel](https://mirrorworldangel.tumblr.com/) asked: YAAASS!!! One of the Rainbow Six's Trio Angels!! I can imagine the Harry calling them by the speaker and they shoutout "Good Morning, Harry!" Hope I get to see more of this!!!

So I answered:

OH MAN speaking of Harry! That gives me an idea.

So Echo jokingly calls Ying, Hibana and Dokkaebi Harry’s Angels and asks “Does he call you guys in the morning through the speaker? Do you all go ‘Good Morning, Harry’?” 

Dokkaebi isn’t a fan of being someone’s ‘angel,’ so she retorts, “Ew, that makes him sounds like a middle aged creep. Besides, he called me a scalpel which is way cooler and practical.”

“Okay, fine. What would Imagawa be, then?” Echo rolls his eyes.

“My babe is an arrow! Fast, deadly and accurate.” Dokkaebi readily pounces on Hibana who’s already bashful at such title. 

“Does that make Mei Lin a-” Echo is mindful of being the next victim who may choke under Ying’s elbow.

“She can be a flashlight. That makes all of you Harry’s… Tools? If you want that better than the angels.” Lesion butts in.

“What? No. I’m a bomb! Explosive power and all.” Ying refuses to be humiliated in front of her ex who is holding his laughter.

“What’s wrong with a flashlight? That’s what you do anyways. You catch people off guard by going _pew pew,_” Lesion flicks his fingers to imitate Candela, “And people cower. They go ‘ahhh-’“

“NO! I’M A BOMB. A FUCKING BOMB!” Ying would have thrashed Lesion by his collar if Hibana isn’t holding onto her. 

“_What’s wrong with a flashlight?_” Lesion seems genuinely confused. 

“It sounds like fleshli-” Echo couldn’t keep his mouth shut, hence he receives the sore neck treatment from Ying.


	6. Day 6 - Dragged Away (Jäger)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jäger in Outbreak when his helicopter fell down.

“Jäger. Check in!” The transmitter crackled as Doc tried to reach out. Jäger heard it and he wanted to reply, but the moment he make any kind of noise would have been the end for him there and then. There were a couple of grunts surrounding the helicopter that broke down and Jäger was laying low in debris. Not a breath or an inch of movement, still as a corpse for survival. **  
**

“Jäger-” CRACK. The device got smashed down by one of the grunts patrolling the area. He was willing to wait out a bit more and manage with a handgun in his holster, then there’s a voice from afar. Impossible, he thought, but it was a genuine human voice who were cowering in pain. The grunts snapped their necks towards the direction and started to rush; to which Jäger felt guilty in feeling thankful for a distraction. He managed to crawl out and assess the damage on transmitter, to which he finds punctured in multiple places. 

Then he felt a presence behind him. A breath that’s hot and yet sent chills down his spine. He turned almost immediately and held the gun to aim, but every bit of valor left him at the sight of a floating corpse in yellow. It was the spitting image that he saw from recent briefings. It was the most dangerous roaches of them all; the Apex.

“ʇ̴̻̏̋͘s̷̙͓̐̌́ͅo̵̻͍̥͊ɥ̸̥̦̝̈̓ ̸͉͎̊̍͆ʍ̵̫̪̑͠ͅǝ̸̣̻̪͌͠ȗ̸̫̱ ̴͖̐∀̷̠̼̝͊͗̔.” It hissed, raised its hands up and a couple of grunts rose below as they ripped through the helicopter floor. Gnarly fingers dug into his arms and another held him by his waist, claws dug into the left side of the stomach. A hard bash struck his head which rendered him concussed, unable to resist while being hurled out. He felt pebbles scraping against his legs while his arms pulled backward, and one moment of losing conscience resulted him in an abandoned building that’s still close to the helicopter. He saw black spike that had some victims skewered and those dead people had dark liquid oozing out of every holes on their faces.

“NO! NO, PLEASE!” Piercing scream rang in high-pitch. A man was pinned on a wall with thin orange needles that impaled his joints and ligaments.

“˙̴͇̋̅ǘ̸̟̲ͅŏ̷̡̦̬̬̲ᴉ̸͈̓u̷̱͋̃n̶͕̝̈́̅̕͜ɯ̸̟͓̞͛̈́̾͠ɯ̵̘̤͙̊̉̈́̈́͛o̸̦̠̰̒̈́̄̋ɔ̴͚͈͈̋̄͑͠ ̷͇͛̅͘ǝ̸̰̟̄̂ͅɥ̴̘͖̇̊̽͝ʇ̶̹͑̄͘͝ ̶̗̰̤̞̪͌̍̃̑͝ǝ̷̦͖͈͎́̿̚ʌ̵̘̤̜̔͊͘ᴉ̶̛̜̹͔ǝ̴̺̬̙̒̋͒̆ɔ̷̧̳͋͜͜ǝ̴̱͐͆̋͋ɹ̵̢̒͘.” The Apex glided towards the man and held his face. It caressed his shaky cheeks in a careful and gentle manner, ironically using those hands that still remained human. When it held up a finger to lift the crying man’s chin, Jäger saw a face that had been hidden under the hoodie. Tendrils that’s akin to scorpion legs latched onto the man’s scalp, bringing its ember-glowing face close to his. Jäger thought that it would shoot out gunk to stop the man from screaming, so he didn’t expect to see a thin tentacle from Apex’s mouth. It had thorns that moved in twitching motion, which continued to slither from Apex to the poor man. Slow and steady. Blood gurgles, tortured shriek and unbearable squelch noise filled the room as the tentacle pushed in like a knife in butter. 

Jäger watched and shuddered in terror, as the death he had witnessed was likely going to happen to him as well. He then realised how there were no needles on his limbs and the gun was still in his hands. Did the Apex forget? Perhaps the man who had just died caused quite a ruckus and attracted all the attention. This was his chance. Given how the leader roach had its head exposed, Jäger could kill it right here. Six bullets on the ember head, perhaps three each for two grunts that’s present. It was a dangerous gamble, but better than gruesome end. He aimed and braced for recoils that’ll aggravate his bleeding stomach, and then- BANG

“Agh!” 

“Ḧ̶̛̛̥͖́̂̄̿̍̏͠ʎ̶͉̤̭̠̜̳̲͂̆̾̌͋͐̏͆͘ǝ̴̟͖̙̅ǝ̵̰̝͙͈͖̥͕̦͉͊ͅǝ̴̻͐͗̉̏ǝ̴͇͌̊̎̐̇͆̎̊ʞ̴̢̢̰̫̼̟̿̑͊͒́͐̓͗̕̕!” They screamed in unison. As the Apex swayed, its fluid sprayed uncontrollably. 

“Come on, come on!” Jäger gritted to leap up. He proceeded to shoot the planned amount of bullets on the grunts and limped away from the scene, desperate to gain some distance. 

“Jäger!” There was a man’s voice, shouting from the other side that’s far from where Jäger crashed, “Hang in there!” A bang and whirring noise followed, then the sky flashed red for a brief moment. It was a flare that he recognised, which gave him a chance to run while the roaches were distracted. 

By then the Apex had stopped thrashing. It stood still to hold its punctured head upon Jäger as if it meant to stare, then let out a series of clicks. One of the grunts that hadn’t died crawled away with the Apex, and even the man who died a few minutes ago moved in motion, reanimated as grunt as well.

“Count my lucky stars.” Jäger’s visor fogged up from sweat. He strained to ignore the burning sensation on his stomach and squeezed every last drop of energy to run as fast as he could. The helicopter was still broken but it still provided a shelter until the other operators would come for his rescue. Until then, he kept his guard up in case that damned Apex came back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might not be quite accurate to the canon event because I wasn’t invested in Outbreak when it came out, but I wanted to guess what would have happened to Jäger when his helicopter crashed.


	7. Day 7 - Isolation (Vigil)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Isolation' is what Vigil identified with the most.

He was young. Didn’t know any better other than following what his parents told him in hushed whisper, even though their words sounded similar to the radio broadcast they had to listen for hours. People had to chew on the lies they had been fed because it numbed them from the injustice they couldn’t stomach. Vigil was too young to recognise back then and he thanked his older brother who starved for him. Two boiled potatoes instead of one somehow protected his short lived naivety.

Their father finally made the decision to pursue a better life and what a failure that was. His brother drowned and sickly mother had to be left behind in jungle. Vigil was aware that his father grieved for them as well, but trauma cuts deeper into a heart that’s smaller and softer. Before he had the chance to fill up the holes and mend the scars, his father demanded Vigil to harden up. The irony was that the father couldn’t do what he had told his son, hence isolating Vigil into complete loneliness. 

When Vigil was adopted, he wasn’t as young. The boy already had a mind of a tethered veteran. He was told to forget. The Hwa family truly loved him as their own son and he knew better. However, this wasn’t him. No matter where he goes, let it be school, nice restaurant, rules and regulations that helped him to conform into the society. His heart continued to bleed under a layer of concrete and that wasn’t the proper treatment to flesh wound. The world around him buzzed busily and he stood in amidst of it, quietly watching which way is the best to follow without rattling himself too much. 

Military life was easy because everybody moved the same here. He could blend in and follow what’s been told, and there was a room to think for himself inside of the box. Years of hard work got him into a renowned international team Rainbow, and he thought it would be a same place with different pawns. That was until he met Dokkaebi, another individual who stood herself out from the crowd. 

He knew of her ever before the Rainbow. A trouble maker, the subtly rebellious type that older Korean generations hate. She pretended to be obedient but was far from being a good subordinate. What he saw in her was an individual who runs against the flow. Someone completely different from him, and yet similarly isolating herself from the general norm and societal rules. And knowing that someone from their home military base wanted her demise didn’t sit right with him. Perhaps it’s jealousy or mild curiosity to see where her ambition will lead, but Vigil chose to stand by her. The spark within her stirred something in him and that’s how he decided to move away from solitude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is far from Halloween and looking more like a character analysis/head cannon, but as soon as I saw the word ‘isolation’ i had to think of Viggle boi ;_;  
Sorry for short update because my holiday has finished and I was dead tired from work.


	8. Day 8 - Stab Wound (Thatcher)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thatcher and his thought on knives.

“Maggie,” Smoke calls out as the rest of SAS team are lounging around in their dormitory, “Don’t you think that you are a tad bit obsessed with knives?”

“It’s nothing but an obsession, lad. It’s a necessity.” Thatcher replies while polishing one until it shines.

“No, but you carry it around everywhere. You can at least tell us why.” Smoke insists and nudges on Mute who feigns disinterest, but he puts his phone on lock to listen.

Sledge hands out cups of tea to each one, “Yeah Mike. You can tell them.”

“What? Don’t tell me Seamus knows! How come he gets to know before us?” 

“That’s favouritism.” Smoke smirks at the way Mute glares at Thatcher and that may have been his plan all along. 

“Alright, alright. You’re in for a boring story, so sit tight and get your pajamas on.“

"Already am.” Smoke begins to strip all except his underwear and ignores Thatcher’s squint.

“So. When you enlist in the military, it’s a given fact that you put your life on the line.” Mike Baker narrates how he chose his lifelong career regardless of his family’s opinions. He was desperate to get out and gain experience that he couldn’t acquire in Bideford. A healthy young adult with able body that has hot blood coursing through. His resolve gained strength day by day as he trained relentlessly, so he felt more than ready when assigned into the politically-charged conflict. 

However, was he prepared to commit murder? It was a split second, a decision he had to make for survival. While surveying an area for a reroute, Thatcher made a mistake of stranding himself away from the squad. He was then ambushed by an enemy who dared to pounce on him. Bound on the ground and rough hands on his holster; Thatcher became aware that this man was about to steal his handgun and shoot wherever fatal. Adrenalin rush gave Thatcher a boost to throw off the man. His arms moved in mechanical and precise motion to pull out a combat knife, then the sharp edge found its way towards the neck. 

That’s a sensation that he’ll never forget.

He still remembers the way his hand gripped the knife. Thumb on the back of the blade while rest of fingers wrapped around the handle. The knife tore through soft and rubbery texture, which unleashed blood that drenched him. Somehow he expected the liquid to feel cold by default against the whoosh of movement, and yet the foreign warmth stuck on him. As the pointy tip ran against fine grains of the bone, he shuddered at the friction between steel and concentrated calcium. His hair rose along with goosebumps. This was a lesson that a gun fight didn’t teach. To stab is an act of robbing someone’s existence up close, fearfully intimate and unforgiving. Ever since then, he learned the power and horror of ending a life, whether it’s his or theirs. Bullets may miss but knives don’t.

“What happened after that?” Mute’s eyes widened. They’re all focused on Thatcher as if he has seen a new light.

“My teammates carried me back and we drank all night to commemorate. Being piss drunk helped in many ways." 

"Yeah, I bet. Young Maggie’s first blood! That’s how he became a bonafide stab-dad to all of us.” Smoke raises his cup as if he has the right to have a cheer with such crude remark.

Thatcher turns away and empties the tea leaves out of his cup, “This is why I don’t tell you jackshit, Porter.” Contrary to what he has said, Thatcher is glad to have Smoke chasing away the tension with cheap jokes. Yes, he told this story to many recruits as an example. Yes, his family knows of the story to understand how Thatcher became to be who he is. And yes, he experienced countless stab wounds within 30 years of his career. 

But sometimes he needs to remember that sensation before he’s numb with the act of killing, and he prefers to rehash with less repercussions.


	9. Day 9 - Shackles (Zofia, Ela)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ela and Zofia finally have the 'talk.'

“Elżbieta, are you still there?” He’s a lawyer who used to work with her father. A distant family friend and intimate business partner of the family, and she hadn’t seen him ever since her father’s suicide. Ela thought that she would never hear from him, so having him interacting with her after so many years is beyond jarring. 

“Yeah, what did you say?” She has to ask him again because whatever he had just said was unbelievable.

“You have an inheritance. It’s stated in your father’s will that you are entitled to 6.5 million złotys.” That’s roughly 1.65 million dollars in USD.

“Why are you telling me this now?”

“It was part of your father’s wish. It had to be revealed three years after his death because he wanted to give you a time to settle into a new job.” Typical of her old man. Ela scowled at how he continued to undermine her abilities and life choices. 

“Okay. Did my sister get her share as well? I bet he reserved the best cut for his favourite pawn.” She’s known for being relentlessly blunt when it comes to family business.

“Well, that’s the tricky part,” Papers crinkle busily on the other side of the call, “He said that only one of you is eligible. No splitting, no forfeit. It has to be either you or Zofia.”

Ela scratches the corner of her lips, “How drunk do you think he was when he wrote that?“

"This is serious, Elżbieta. Your father must’ve had his reasons for this." 

"Yeah, and he had all the opportunities to be a good father to me. But he didn’t and no one knew what’s in his brain other than my sister before he apparently drove her away,” There’s a fire in her chest that’s been simmering far too long. Sensing her temper may ruin any further discussions about her family matter, she decides to take a deep breath and regain composure to show a basic manner towards her father’s lawyer, “Alright. Thank you for letting me know at least. I’ll think about it and get back to you.”

“Take your time. And try not to blame your sister.” They hang up but Ela regrets answering the call in the first place. Dealing with grudge, longing and pressure had been a challenge ever since their mother died. No matter how much she tried to thwart those negativities away, they came back like a boomerang. That’s why she began to feel better after joining the Rainbow because this team acknowledged Ela as who she is. Her achievements and abilities weren’t overshadowed even the slightest, unlike those days when she came back to Poland. Despite joining the GROM as a civilian, people already knew the name Bosak and the family’s influence. 

Everyday was an enjoyable adventure as she developed her presence in Rainbow until Zofia followed in. The ‘better’ Bosak came to steal Ela’s glory. Anxiety peaked at the sight of her sister, a life-long competitor who already had a head start in every aspect that Ela was desperate to attain. The unfair comparison she had to go through during their teen years came back like a whiplash, so that caused her to withdraw from Zofia’s effort to be a wholesome family again. 

However as they spend more time together, albeit afar rather than close, Ela faced an uncomfortable truth. She felt fine with her sister. All those years of harbouring jealousy, blaming Zofia for their father’s selective affection and feeling incompetent. They were caused by some sorry excuse of a parent that Jan Bosak was, not Zofia who also wanted to have his approval as well. Realising that her older sister was also a child whose world reflected on a sole guardian shook Ela to core. It made her feel guilty. She thought about reaching out to Zofia and reciprocate the effort. And yet she wasn’t sure how to approach without hurting her own pride by admitting the mistake that caused a rift between them. Ela has been mustering up the courage slow and steady, so she isn’t sure on what to do with the call from their family lawyer. 

She could take the money and split it between the two of them in secret, but that might risk some legal actions due to her dickward of a father. She can take it all for herself and buy Zofia whatever she wants, but they both know how ridiculous that’s going to be, especially when both of them value pride and independence to its core. 

Then the only viable option is to let Zofia have the money. 

Ela has to ask herself if she really wants to do that. After all, this is the closest thing that can be considered as a present from her father. An act that may have less than a gram of compassion all because he had decided to leave something for Ela for the last time. Zofia basked in his attention this entire time, so Ela can have this one, right? That qualifies her more entitled; emotional compensation, if you will. But then Zofia is married. She has a daughter who thankfully takes after her mother and raising a child isn’t financially friendly job. Ela could use the money to raise her own child one day, if she decides to settle down for bigger responsibilities. Then she isn’t all that ready or desires a life that’s controlled by someone else.

Ideas and doubts swim in her head as they mix and stir until inseparable. The easiest thing to do is either call the lawyer to let him know of her decision, so she picks up her phone and browse through the call history to find his number. 

Instead, she changes her mind to call Zofia. It’d be better to let her sister know rather than being rash if Ela truly wishes them to reconcile at some point in their lives. The signal goes on and Zofia picks up within two seconds, “Hello?”

“Hey,” Ela swallows dryly, “What’s up?”

“Good. You?”

“I’m good.” Her reply comes out sheepish. Neither of them says a thing, which makes Ela regret the second time tonight.

“Did you want to talk about something?” Zofia breaks the silence.

“No, not really.” Ela slumps down against a wall, berating at her own knee jerk reaction for lying.

“You know, I talked to someone that we both know today,” Zofia hesitates and the anticipation dreads Ela, “Do you remember our father’s lawyer?”

“Yeah, because he gave me a call as well.”

“Oh! Oh did he?” Zofia laughs and it sounds unnatural, “Well, I guess you know about the money, then.”

“Mm hm. Okay. You see Zo, I wan-”

“I want you to have that money.” Zofia takes the words right out of Ela’s mouth.

“What?”

“It’s for you. You deserve it more than I do ” Zofia proceeds to explain how Ela can enjoy what she truly wanted to do rather than staying at the military. She’s been wanting to support her little sister but at the time when their father was alive, she thought his world was the truth and nothing else, “I know it was hard for you to grow up without anyone there to support you and your passion. It’s too late for me to do this, but this is the least that I can do. Take the money and be who you want to be.”

“Zofia,” Ela shakes her head while her mouth gaping for words, but her throat warms up with a familiar flame, “I don’t want it.”

“No, please. It’s better for you to have it.”

“Don’t tell me what’s better for me or not!” Ela is on the verge of raising her voice, “God fucking damn it, you’re just like him.”

“What do you mean?” There is a sudden whoosh from Zofia’s end, as if it’s windy around her.

“Telling people what to do. Controlling other people as if he’s everybody’s boss. You’re just like him, deciding things without listening to what I have to say.” Ela places herself away from the table before she knocks it off due to anger.

“Well what do you want me to do? Take this money and be on my marry way? I can’t do that to you, Ela." 

"What, do you pity me? Is that it? You want me to have all that money because you had everything that I wanted?” If there’s a sewing kit to seal her mouth, Ela would do it now without hesitation. 

“Yes! It drove me crazy to think about how he treated you back then.” Zofia shouts and that forces Ela to put the phone away from her ear.

“Then you should’ve done something about it when he was still alive. Why bother now?” Ela can’t believe the cruelty that erupts out of her mouth. She is being the biggest bitch out there and it’s unstoppable at this point.

“Because you are my family! The only one who I grew up with,” There’s a quiver in Zofia but she calms herself down expertly, “Let me do this for you.”

Ela roots on the spot, shutting down all the movement while she focuses on processing what Zofia had said. She can feel the pulse that courses through her body and the mild shake that stirs from deep within. She then notices the effect of their father’s will, the unjust nature of this inheritance. It became clearer as she thinks about it, which helps her to reach a conclusion by saying, “No.”

“Ela-”

“No. This is some bullshit,” Ela whirls in motion, “This large sum of money and the stupid rule. It doesn’t matter to have either of us take it if both of us end up unhappy.”

“But it’s what our father have saved for us his entire life. We can’t make it disappear in thin air.” Zofia’s voice echoes in the background.

“Alright then. You take it. You gave it to me and I give it back to you.” Ela explains how Zofia will need the money since she has a family, “You can even try for a second child if you want to. I remember how you always wanted two girls,” _Just like us._

“This is going nowhere, isn’t it?” Zofia sighs, “I just want you to live your own life and you want me to have mine.”

“News flash, Zo. This is my life now. A badass anti-terrorist unit with cool gadgets.” She chuckles at her own remark, which earns a similar reaction from Zofia.

“Yeah, you’re right,” A voice startles Ela because it’s the same one that she’s been listening to through her phone. The way Zofia storms towards Ela appears intimidating, but tension dissipates as the elder hugs the younger, “And I’m so proud of you." 

"How did you know where I am?” Ela hovers her hands on Zofia’s back, confused and surprised.

“I asked around ever since I got that call from the lawyer. I wanted to talk to you about this in person but you beat me to it.” Zofia pulls away but keeps her hand on Ela’s shoulders.

“Oh. I see,” Ela lowers her gaze, hesitant to be intimate with her sister again due to old habits, “Zofia, I really don’t want that money. It feels like I’m under his influence again and I would rather earn that amount on my own.”

“You really don’t want it,” Zofia gives Ela a space by relaxing a little and let out a soft sound while smiling, “The truth is that I don’t want it for similar reasons.”

Ela scoffs, “So your intention of letting me have the money wasn’t as pure and noble?”

“I stand by what I’ve said on the phone. But I also don’t want to have something that reminds me of him,” She reaches down under the shirt and lifts up a dented pocket watch, “This is already a good reminder of him for me. How he preached about time is worth more than gold. I guess now would be the best time to follow that advice because I want to prioritise our time together than some gold.”

“Look at us. Being spoilt enough to not want the money that other people would die for.” Ela wonders if their situation fall under first world problem. Yes, it does.

“We’re just seeking for what was stolen from us. Familial connections.” Zofia reaches out for a contact, but hesitates as Ela appeared awkward a few minutes ago.

“And no one can buy it off from us, not even our dead father.” Ela doesn’t necessarily reciprocate the gesture. She merely places a hand on Zofia’s shoulder that seemed broad and rigid when she left Poland after graduation. 

“Especially our dead father.” Understanding that a hug was a bit too much at this point, Zofia holds the hand. They nod in silence, quietly celebrating the second time they are liberated from the past that hurt them as a family. The money shall be donated to the GROM through Zofia and that could be the most indirect way of paying off the debt that they owe to their father. Let bygones be bygones because there’s nothing that’ll hold them down from building that trust that’s once severed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Imma write 500 words and no more than that, I said.
> 
> I caught on some feels and went over, I have.
> 
> Even delayed a day, but do I have regret? NO REGERT.


	10. Day 10 - Unconscious (Smoke, SAS, Clash)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smoke drank a little too much.

This may be the last time Smoke will wake up on a bar counter in spread eagle after a Halloween party. Not because of his age, it’s rather due to his adoptive daughter. Sledge has become a great friend with her as the ‘cool uncle,’ so they naturally began to share funny videos and pictures through chatting apps. That includes all the mishap that Smoke conducts on a daily basis and his daughter never disappoints him in snarky remarks. That girl learned it from the best, after all.

“Your daughter is a genius!” Sledge shoves his tablet’s screen to Smoke with a guffaw. It’s a crudely edited video that’s meant to look unpolished. Smoke is prancing around in his [pink cat costume](https://grain-crain-drain.tumblr.com/post/184363981768/imagine-smoke-in-that-costume-and-blasting-that), back bent and hands snapping like paws trying to catch feather on a stick. The whole footage has ‘What’s New Pussycat’ as theme song; some parts has the ‘what’ bit repeated, ‘pussycat’ is slowed to the point where it sounds like whale’s singing and ‘whoa’ is replaced with this guy in spider man costume who screams after saying “It’s Wednesday, my dudes.” It’s in sync with Smoke spreading his legs out wide while laying on a table.

“I don’t remember any of this.” Smoke wriggles lazily out of the rubbish pile but he is too sluggish to make an effort. 

“It’s a miracle that you even woke up,” Mute sips on cold water. There are bags under his eyes and hair messy. He’s having a proper hangover, “You drank whatever is in Senaviev’s flask. The whole two litres. All of it.” No one objects that a flask shouldn’t be more than 350 milliliters, but who dares to question the older Russian and his divine choices.

“I got drunk, danced and slept. What’s new?” Smoke strips and dumps the costume into a laundry basket.

“Well, you did more than that last night.” Sledge swipes to find different photos. Pictures of people smiling, pleasantly buzzed and posing in groups. FBI were the Avengers with Pulse being Black Widow, GIGN dressed as Smurfs and GSG 9 volunteered to be low-effort Pikachus with IQ as Ash Ketchum. Smoke’s obnoxiously pink attire was in all of those photos as he portrayed a bipedal cat who stroked on his crotch area.

“Hey, that’s pretty good.” Smoke opens up his phone to request downloads.

“You also narrated some mind blowing poems.” Mute plays a recording which starts with chaotic bustling of people talking all at the same time. After a few seconds, Smoke recognises his usual mannerisms to grasps people’s attention and it goes something like-

[Shut your trap and listen! Listen, alright? 

This pussy may be not alright,

Since he’s lost without a home tonight,

But if you scratch his itchy spot till he sees light,

He’ll might have your love hole tight.]

“That’s some Dr. Seuss shite.” Clash makes herself known as she lay still on a couch.

“That rhymes!” Smoke dares pat on the smooth skin of her bald head, so he deserved that punch on his nether region. Sledge and Mute continues to share turns in what mischief Smoke had committed. There’s a video of him doing a handstand on top of bear legs while Mozzie balances on his feet. He challenged Maestro, a hairy Emperor Nero for a boxing match and got trashed due to his cat ear being snatched away, and there’s another footage of him screaming for Mr. Bear but calling him a twink for being so skinny.

“I gotta say. This is the highlight of all.” Sledge plays the final video where Smoke is sitting down alone in a stool. Instead of a trouble maker, there’s a man who’s staring into the camera with his darkened brown hair visibly drenched in sweat.

[Hey. I really need to tell you something.]

“Whoa. I haven’t looked that serious in a while.” The last time he feigned solemnity was when his mum found a box of explicit collections during early teen years.

[Seamus, Mark, Maggie. I love you guys. Oh and you too, Morowa. You’re a bitch sometimes but I’m a bigger bitch so it doesn’t matter.]

Smoke’s eyebrows twitch in enlightenment as he remembers what he is about to say, “Turn it off.”

“Don’t be shy, James. It’s nice.” Sledge holds up the tablet high, making it impossible for Smoke to reach.

[You’re my family, mates. My daughter’s lucky to have all of you as relatives. I haven’t met wacky dicks like all of you and you’re the best loons out there. I dare say all of you are like my family.] 

“I can’t believe you were about to cry.” Mute smirks.

[Don’t die on me, you. If you do, I’ll make your coffins. I’ll use my body as a template so you can fit in too. But that’s going to be hard for Seamus’ so I will have to ask that Spainish guy to lie down first.]

“You know that coffins can’t be reused after someone has already laid on it, right?" 

"Yeah, I know.” Smoke replies to Clash with a lie that fools no one.

[Anyway, I love you all. We can’t have fivesome because my bed will break, but I’d die for any of you. I can’t believe my rotten luck. Please look after my darling if I don’t ever make it.] The video finishes just before Smoke sways back and forth, ready to fall asleep on the spot as if he is narcoleptic.

“What a finish! I can’t believe you fainted into sleep at such perfect timing.” Sledge pats on Smoke on glee because it’s a rare sight to see such shameless man turning red due to embarrassment.

“I’m not going to drink this much ever again.”

“No, please do. This has been eye opening,” Mute sends the video to Thatcher via email rather than apps for the older man’s convenience, “And next time we will try to keep you awake.”


	11. Day 11 - Stitches (Caveira/Clash, Blackbeard)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blackbeard walks in on Clash and Caveira making out.

Training exercise is not an option. It’s a part of the job description that aids in maintaining sharp senses during real hostile encounters, therefore all the operators are expected to uphold professional work ethics. Blackbeard is one of those who are serious about proper procedures. He believed that his colleagues would also follow a similar standard, so he felt utterly out of place when he walked in on the two scariest defending operators. Their limbs were entangled together while laying flat on a table in a room and the large projector merged their shadows in a form of a wriggling big heap. He had never seen two people making out so violently, fingers clawing into clothes, eyes shut tight as if they were walking on a thin line between pleasure and desperation. An unpinned stun grenade slipped from his grasp; the blinding bang rendered him sightless for a few seconds. When his vision returned, Caveira had her muffled pistol under his neck while Clash barricaded any other entrance to the room that they were in.**  
**

“Did you see it?” Caveira’s breath was uncomfortably close.

“Yes,” Blackbeard moved forward rather than giving her the satisfaction of domination, “And it won’t go unnoticed. This is a serious misconduct, ladies. I expected better from you.”

“Ha! Look at him talk. Bet he was a teacher’s pet.” Clash scoffed while watching her phone to check the surveillance cameras. 

“You won’t tell a soul.” The growl deepens as she pushed the muzzle further into his neck.

“What will you do? Interrogate me with rubber knife?” Blackbeard showed his own from a holster.

“No, I have a real one here,” Caveira plucked hers out and let the sharp metallic shing echo, “And I’m not afraid to use it.”

“Fine by me. You’ll get court-martialed.”

“Oh, Jenson. Get creative,” Clash hung her arm on his shoulder and leaned to assert pressure, “Don’t you guys have this phrase called ‘snitches get stitches?’”

Surrounded by the two who are capable of hazardous acts, Blackbeard couldn’t help but to feel cold sweat on his back, “It’s what gangsters do and I’m sure you won’t stoop so low.”

“Of course not. We will just be very literal about it.” The Brit clasped and shook the man, then whispered in Caveira’s ear in glee. The moment he saw a wicked grin spreading behind the skull paint was beyond unnerving.

“We won’t hurt you. Just not you.” Caveira pulled on the hem of his uniform and with swiftest motion, she made a small cut. Blackbeard anticipated a real flesh wound as she continued to cut different places on his clothes, but that’s all she did; snipping here and there that won’t ruin the integrity and function of the uniform, but inconvenient enough to appear unkempt.

“I’m guessing I’ll have to sew all these back.” He sighed at the anticlimactic punishment. 

“Do your stitches!” Clash blocked her mouth with a fist. Bet she learned such sense of humour from that darned Smoke.

“I’m not done yet,” Caveira had to have her daily fill of cruelty, “I need your hair as souvenir.” She reached out for his trademark feature, hence his codename.

“No!” Blackbeard slapped her hand away, “That’s crossing the line.”

Clash was quick to help out her darling, “Come on. Just a hair! How can we trust that you aren’t a tattletale?” She hooked under his armpits to bind.

“Just a little snip, boy.” Caveira was already too close. He’s strong enough to throw Clash off and sprint away from this whole situation, but Caveira’s hands already found its way towards his beard.

“Wait, stop-” He felt a gentle tug under his chin. It was a cautious approach from Caveira since she held a real knife, but all three of them gasped when those bountiful black hair fell effortlessly in her hands. Time flowed slowly as the curly strands descended in dramatic tempo. None of them dared to say a word at his loss, or in fact, the hidden worry that’s been bugging him for quite a while.

“Aren’t you too young to lose hair?” Caveira was blissfully blunt.

“Shh, love. Now’s not the time,” Clash releases him, “Bruv, we didn’t know.”

“It’s- it’s okay.” _No it’s not._

“Is that why you’ve been under-performing? Been hell-bent on trainings?”

“You could say that.” Blackbeard didn’t feel like beating around the bush when he could sell his soul to disappear at this very moment.

“We won’t tell.” Caveira seized the opportunity, “If you don’t either.”

“Snitches get stitches.” Clash gave him a weak pat on the shoulder.

“Help me sew back my clothes and we’ll call it a done deal.” Blackbeard refused to be the only one with absolute defeat. Caveira glinted a menacing glare but soon calmed down when Clash reasoned with her.


	12. Day 12 - “Don’t move.” (Buck/Jackal)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jackal and Buck encounters a 'deer.'

On their fourth day of camping out in Sepaq forest, Jackal’s heart races as he discovers fresh tracks. An upside-down heart shape with concave sides. The front tips are pointy and located towards the inside of the track. **  
**

“_Amor_, look!” Jackal taps on Buck, “This must be a deer.”

“Sure is.” Buck shines a smile and tiptoes to plant a kiss on the Spaniard’s messy hair. Despite only spending two days to study the footprint diagrams, Jackal radiates pure talent in learning how to track. If Buck plans to return the police force with a reminder course of his criminology degree, him and Jackal could open up their own private detective services. Although that’s a daydream to discuss sometime later in comfort because they aren’t about to miss out on venison steak for tomorrow’s lunch.

“Sun sets fast here.” Jackal observes the surrounding that’s succumbing in a gradient of orange and navy blue. 

“That’s how it is in the forest,” Buck watches his breath evaporating in a fog. As he unlocks the safety on a marksman rifle, Jackal follows and does the same, “We better finish this before it’s too late.”

Jackal nods and stands behind Buck to follow the expert’s trail on making the least amount of noise, “Lead the way.”

Thus they set off, sneaking around the trees while stepping on tree roots and sizeable chunks of wood rather than leafy spots. The footprints are irregular at best, and yet Jackal begins to notice an odd pattern that wasn’t obvious at first. As they travel further into the denser part of woods, those hoof marks gradually narrow their gaps. Two hooves are aligned side by side and the next pair appears a good ten centimeters ahead. It’s as if someone used a custom-made stamp to leave such a trail.

“This isn’t right.” Buck halts and whispers.

“These tracks. That’s not how a quadrupedal walks,” Jackal crouches for better details, “It’s almost like this deer stopped being a deer. _Is it hopping?”_

A snapping noise jerks them away from the ground. Leaves rustle and the sound of breaking branches become louder, but there’s a doubt that those branches are thin and frail. Each cracklings are slow and deliberate as if someone’s putting an effort to break thicker ones with strengths that no deer can possess.

Buck backtracks on his steps and gestures Jackal to crouch behind a nearby bush. As he ensures that Jackal is completely hidden, he finds one for himself on the opposite side, “Don’t move.” He mouths the words before ducking back into the bush. 

Two operators remain standby with rifles tight in their grips, absolutely motionless just like how they plan ambush during the attacking phase. No one dares to blink while watching the road they were standing just a few minutes ago. They also observe the space behind each others’ bush in case one of them gets attacked; a risky tactic, but it’s better than both of them hurt and rendered vulnerable.

No matter how long the wait is, it won’t deter their posture. Jackal almost feels a sweat forming on his forehead and that’s when he sees it. A male deer, mature buck that shakes its magnificent antler. It’s well taller than him and the fur around its chest seem impenetrable given how robust it is. Every description from this animal fits into the category of a normal deer, except those eyes reflected white with yellow and green hue. Just like one of those BBC documentaries where they filmed a lion in the dark by using night vision camera. 

It turns from side to side, snorting hot stream of air on the ground that Jackal had been standing on. With a guttural growl, the buck lifts its two front feet to stand like a well-balanced bipedal. Body upright, back and neck straight while nose shooting up the sky; Jackal gazes into his scope for a shot on its head but he stops from pulling the trigger when one of the antlers fall. Another falls as well and the deer shrieks, a sudden reaction that strikes uneasiness in all living beings within vicinity. 

“_Dios mío_.” Jackal didn’t mean to mutter. Therefore when the deer snaps it’s head in 180 to stare at his direction, cold chill encapsulates him from head to toe. This is what people meant when colours drains from a person who loses courage in seconds.

The deer don’t approach. Instead, it sheds skin by splitting open from the top of its head, allowing the audience to hear the real live orchestra. It’s similar to a plastic wrap and paper being ripped off, but has to be accompanied by squelching of moist layer dripping plasma, puss and blood. 

“Duck down!” Buck screams. He lands a blow on the monster’s tender head and the shriek is unbearable by ten folds. Jackal seizes the chance to sprint towards Buck, hence they book it without a second glance. That’s the number one rule in a horror movie: don’t look back or you’ll trip.

As soon as their truck comes in view, Buck unlocks the door to leap in while Jackal hops on the back. He still has his gun ready in case that thing didn’t die like a mortal beings should when shot in the head. 

Jackal really hoped that he won’t see it again. And yet, “_Me cago en la puta._” The sight of a burgundy mess galloping towards them has his palms sweaty. 

“Ryad, we can’t kill it! Come back in right now!” 

“Let me just shoot its legs.” Jackal aims steadily and doesn’t disappoint the training he received back in GEO. Two right in the knees and another one on its right eye. It wriggles in sharp whining and Jackal doesn’t hesitate to hop in next to Buck.

“Can’t believe they’re real,” Buck scowls as he floor the pedal, “But there are more fucked up shits out there.” 

“Yeah. We may be the first ones to survive.” He finally wipes off the sweat and melts into the seat. Now that he’s safely in a car and won’t trip, Jackal checks where the monster is through the side mirror. It’s still in the same spot but standing upright again, and for some reason resembling another animal that has pointy ears, sleek legs and a thick tail. Almost like a canine. Surely it can’t be a jackal this time, because the way it took a form of buck was eerie enough already.


	13. Day 13 - Adrenaline (Finka, Spetsnaz)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finka falls into a temptation at times.

Of all people, Finka knows about the horrifying abuse of adrenaline. Thankfully she only has to deal with the drug as she uses her glove on a weekly basis; due to the fact that Doc ensured intervals between her deployment. Yes, it’s the best decision in long haul despite how she misses the sensation of weights being lifted off from this stiff vessel of her’s. And yet, there are some days that makes her she’s desperate. Fatigue during a regular training hinders her from completing one more lap than last time. At times she nearly misses out on an alarm because she spent the whole night awake, fighting against sensation that’s akin to glass shards embedded in fibres of her ligaments. 

A devil whispers that it’s okay to have one extra dose when it’s all too unbearable. One dosage that will allow her an optimal condition during the day and an undisturbed sleep at night. She could consider it as an extension to buy her more time in finding a cure for neuropathy. 

Finka keeps telling herself that it couldn’t be helped. When the rest of Spetsnaz drive out for their pub night, that’s the time she readies to commit the act that’s considered sinful by her standard. Left arm bound just above elbow and skin thoroughly sterilised. She extracts the solution that’s usually for her nanobots and taps the syringe to remove air bubbles; of course, she also shoot out a bit and let the clear solution drip. Up until this moment, her resolve remained unshaken; so why is it so hard to pierce through her skin and inject the sweet release? There’s nothing difficult in a push and bit of prickly sensation. Finka had a knife cut across her face, for god sake. She isn’t a child either who cries at the sight of a needle! 

_Once you do this, you may not be able to go back._

Ignoring the most obvious reason behind her reluctance, Finka rests her eyes to regulate breathing. After making up her mind, she opens to inject and finds a door to the bunk bed creaking open. Fuze comes out, stops when he sees her, brows furrowed at first and then shoots up as he notices the syringe.

“Did they leave you behind?” Finka feigns nonchalance despite waves of panic pounding her chest.

“What’s that in your hand?” Fuze raises a question rather than answering her’s. He is quick to stride towards her and crouch to level their eyes as if he is assessing the situation while appearing a little judgemental. It’s woes of having a ‘resting bitch’ face.

Finka shrugs, “It’s for my neuropathy. You know the story.” 

“No, I don’t. Not when you’re looking like someone who’s about to do drugs.”

“Epinephrine _is_ a drug. I give some to you when you’re about to faint out there.” She is tempted to shoo the pestering colleague, and yet his company is better than being shit-scared alone.

“But that’s a small dosage. This is looking like that French doctor’s one and I know he adds water in his. Did you add some water?” He means the saline solution.

“No,” Finka will take it back. His presence isn’t welcomed anymore, “Go back to sleep or do whatever you were doing in the bedroom. I’m busy.”

“Okay. I’ll let Maxim know-” As he’s about to reach out for his phone on the table next to them, Finka slams it down in lightning speed.

“Why do you need to tell him?”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Fuze frowns, “You’re about to do something conspicuous. I’m not going to clean up after your mess - it’s his job as your _mentor_, isn’t it?”

“Shuhrat, I don’t mean to boast. But who knows more about medicine here, between you and I?” Finka hopes he would shut his trap.

“You. But that looks dangerous. I know how stingy Kateb becomes when Alex asks for more healing bullets, so seeing you having a full dosage without diluting doesn’t seem normal.” 

“You’ve got a point,” Finka is genuinely impressed with Fuze’s deducting skill, “But I’ve assessed myself that I need this dosage.”

“Is that so?” Fuze tilts his head, “And Kateb said yes?”

“Yes he did.” A part of her hurts for having to lie.

“Alright then. I believe you.” 

“Really?” That’s easier than she thought.

“Sure. I mean, it is your expertise. I don’t see you lecturing me about my gadgets unlike that woman from Hong Kong, so I won’t bother you anymore.” Fuze sits next to her and reaches out for his phone again while side gazing at her, as if he is gauging whether she will slap it down again. Finka turns away as a partial approval and returns to her syringe, but the doubt has grown bigger because it fed on Fuze’s unexpected trust.

Now there’s a full blown guilt that leads to an imaginary scenario where she disappoints the others by becoming an addict. There’s no guarantee that Fuze won’t tell. Glaz will be worried, Kapkan will berate her and Tachanka may give her cold shoulders. Being worried about her reputation among them sound superficial, but it’s making Finka realise that she holds them in high regard as they do the same for her as well. With all those thoughts swimming in her head, she makes the decision to keep the demon at bay today.

“Oh shit. I forgot to pick up a science journal from the library and they’ll close soon!” She checks the time, proceeds to return the solution back in the bottle and puts them back in a cushioned compartment of a box, “Can you give this back to Flament? He’ll give it back to Kateb when he’s back from Spain.” Knowing that Lion wouldn’t explain to Doc much at all, it’s safer to have Fuze do the delivery. If Doc finds out how she took his supplies, she may have to face his interrogation. 

“Grab me a beer on the way back.” Fuze rolls his eyes but agrees to help. 

“Thank you,” Finka hastily finds a key for their communal car. She jogs over to the door but halts before she leaves, “Thank you, again.”

“Just go.” Fuze flicks a wave and grunts in disinterest. As soon as she leaves, the man unlocks the phone to shoot a quick message to his colleague trapper which reads,

[Crisis averted. You owe me a favor.]

He soon receives a reply:

[It’s not me. Timur is the one who noticed.]

[Yeah and you cared.] Fuze sees through Kapkan’s façade.

[And you don’t? Where’s the comradeship, you two?] Tachanka decides to send Fuze a message as well, to which he willfully ignores. Rather than claiming how he’s compelled to help Finka out, Fuze prefers to show in action. He stopped Finka from overdosing, so throwing the medical supply back at Lion will be another job well done. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 'Day 14 - Tear-stained' is [posted as a separate entry.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21079835)


	14. Day 15 - Scars (R6S Operators)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A general descriptions of R6S operators' scars.

Scars are pretty common, whether it’s skin deep or severe. I dare say it’s true because we all fall and get hurt at some point. Even your knees that you hurt during childhood will have some mark that hasn’t disappeared yet. It’s almost invisible, and yet quite evident under specialised scopes that can zoom up to molecular levels. 

There are those people who have more scars than others. It tells a story that has happened or will happen. Some are only a scratch like Ash who slipped while rushing towards the objective. Most may get a nasty deep gash that Blackbeard wears proudly, or even those hidden slits under Maverick’s shirt. 

Glaz survived from nearly losing his vision, who’s more fortunate than Capitão. Lesion gained a chemical burn from the choices that he had to make while Finka didn’t choose to have phantom muscle tears from insides. Well, facial scar was also unintentional but she gave Kapkan a thank you gift by cracking his bones. Same goes to Valkyrie who had to give up on her passion but that led her to a different career path which ironically might cause more injuries in the future. 

Caveira may seem like the most active one in giving scars to her enemies, but the journey of mastering skills for an interrogation couldn’t be achieved while keeping herself safe. Meanwhile Nomad adorns her injury with pride, a means to shed her old image as someone who was privileged. Smoke also doesn’t seem to mind what he did to himself during science experiments, because I guess mistakes are part of learning and he took it in his stride. Thermite doesn’t seem to care either but I feel his burns on personal levels.

There are more scars that’s unseen and I don’t mean the ones on the surface. Those emotional turmoils; we can only speculate how these operators think and feel, and that’s something I won’t disclose here. It’s a free interpretation and that’s the beauty of creativity. 


	15. Day 16 & 17 - Pinned Down, “Stay with me” (Mira and co.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mira suffers. Terribly.

“Operator down! I repeat, operator down!” As Mira grasped on her fleeting consciousness, Ela’s piercing bark was the only thing that kept her awake. She also heard Castle screaming as his adrenaline rushed to shoot down the oncoming waves of white-masked vermin, and Tachanka didn’t miss a chance to let others know where he placed the infamous LMG. Before she squeezed her eyes shut, she felt Vigil lifting up her body to a secluded part of their defending area. His hands were lightning quick and yet featherlight gentle while dismantling her set of protective gear. Then he stopped at the gruesome sight on the left side of her waist, but that didn’t hinder him from finding anything that resembled a mattress for her to lie on.

The counter defence took no longer than half an hour. While Ela swept the entire building to ensure a complete neutralisation, the rest of them stayed behind to assess the damage that rendered Mira incapacitated. 

“It’s a shotgun wound,” Tachanka grimaced as he leaned in for a closer look.

“Damn. We need to get those buckshots out before they start to rust in her.” Castle pulled out a medical kit that he carries. Tachanka and Vigil followed by taking theirs out, as they were aware that Mira would need a whole lot more than any other downed operator who aren’t as fatally wounded.

“The transportation unit won’t be here until 2100,” Vigil checked on his phone and squinted at the clock that read 1800, “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’m going to pass out.” Mira barely managed to mutter as she shuddered in agony.

“It’s all clear,” Ela came back with empty cans of Grzmot mines. She seemed equally mortified at Mira’s gnarly wounds, but regained her composure as she saw the medical kits splayed open, “Alright. So what’s the plan?” 

“Get some gloves on and we’ll pour sterile agent on your hands. Senaviev, Hwa and I will hold Álvarez down when you perform the extraction.” Castle decision sounded rash, but Mira’s life wouldn’t be able to wait three or more hours.

“We should contact Kateb first.” Ela put on the gloves regardless as she wanted to perform under Doc’s guidance through a phone call.

“No reception. We need to do this now.” Tachanka readily cleared up a nearby table. Mira watched the preparation unfold; the clear liquid soaking Ela’s paled gloved hands, Castle rubbing the scalpels and tweezers with the same agent, Vigil’s wandering eyes as he placed Mira on top of the table and Tachanka offered a piece of neatly folded clothing to put between her teeth.

“Don’t kill me.” Mira whispered before the fabric blocked her mouth. That meant to be a joke but Mira was shivering in pain and fear for the real live hell that would haunt her until she died of natural causes. That’s only if she could survive without being filleted like a fish.

“I won’t.” Ela nodded and put on a mask while the men began to pin Mira’s limbs and body down. She poured the sterile agent on Mira’s wound and the burning sensation shook her body in writhing twist. In midst of shrieking, Mira thought she could feel her skin and muscle tissues shrivel at the alcoholic component, as if each of million tiny bubbles were popped to reveal the caved-in surfaces. 

“Hold her still!” Castle yelled but had to bark out louder to ensure that the others heard him through the blood curdling howl. Ela immediately dove in to pluck out the marbles that dug into the mangled muscle fibre, inevitably poking into unharmed flesh that abhorred such foreign prickles. Hands and fingers were more than calm, which impressed the others who clenched their jaws at Mira’s vocal struggle that’s almost inhumane at this point.

One by one, Ela took out the damned marbles. Whenever she delved deeper, Mira’s back curved like a bow. Vigil didn’t hesitate to push her chest down because this wasn’t a time to be apologetic for being inappropriate. She’d rather thank the Korean for making a quick judgement. There were moments when Mira abruptly quietened down, to which forced Tachanka to tap on her cheeks several times.

“Stay with me,” There were beads of sweat on his forehead. His sole focus was on regaining her conscience, “Come on. Stay with us.” He sighed when Mira opened her eyes again, and yet he felt guilty for pulling the poor woman back into reality rather than allowing her to sleep through the purgatory that would save her. They repeated this for a couple of more times until Ela counted the amount of buckshots she extracted. Five. 

She was unsure whether it’s okay to search for more without carving into her comrade, “I think we should stop. I can only do what’s on the surface and we don’t even have an x-ray here. It’s best to leave the rest to professionals.”

Tachanka stroked to move the sweat-soaked hair away from Mira’s cheeks, “It’s over. Let’s patch you up and get some fluids that won’t sting.” 

Vigil put on gloves and asked Castle to sterilise. He promptly unpacked the gauze pad and tape to adorn Mira’s wound, while Tachanka prepared hypodermic solution to inject. And they stayed still for the rest of the evening, all huddled next a silvery foil of a blanket that covered Mira to keep her warm.


	16. Day 18 - Muffled Scream (Valkyrie)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A thought on Valkyrie's background.

Once a person is born into this world, they ride the flow that is time. From indoor pool to the creeks and streams that ran near her father’s base, Valkyrie learned to love water and let her skin stroke against the soothing chill. The first-hand experience to recognise how bodies of water moved in straight or curvy banks, the depth and length that she had to swim through. At times she believed her body could disperse into those rippling molecules because it felt so natural. No sediment could curb her because Valkyrie lived for that moment, so it was a no-brainer that she swam faster than anybody else could at her age. **  
**

Then she met a dam. A gush splashing into a solid obstacle, scattering bits of her into droplets that took a while to coagulate. No one could have predicted what happened when she was involved in a car accident, rendering her unable to be who she was throughout junior year. For a while time stopped as she stayed inactive against her will. Those were the dark times where the river ran within her body through those eyes, which eventually filled the small room that she trapped her mind at. 

The closest sensation that resembled of swimming was the bathtub, a safe place where she often submerged below head level. It was a lake that reflected the light above in a clear image, a stagnant pool that appeared calm as she suppressed the urge to scream on top of her lungs. If she were to do such a thing and awaken her whole family, the muffled anguish would float up in forms of bubbles. Only then people would see her turmoil in forms of a dirty mud bed; disturbed, riled up and aching to be more than mild ripples.

An opportunity rose up, possibly related to her father’s line of work. Valkyrie took the chance to join the Navy because she wasn’t going to stay defeated even if her injury crushed the passion within her. Despite being a junior-leveled athlete, Valkyrie remembered how to condition herself back into shape. Regular exercises all week and one day to expand her limit by one, as in eleven push-ups rather than ten or twenty-one squats instead of twenty. Thus she excelled during those four years and no one could break the hardened determination of someone so driven. The unrelenting diligence got her accepted into the SEAL and some people doubted the credibility of that choice. Those rumours and gossips soon drained into the shameful hole whence it came from, all due to Valkyrie’s physical prowess and highly efficient intel-gathering. One cannot fathom or judge a force of nature that is Meghan Castellano, and she shall continue to glide against the rough current in a colossal mass of ocean, where lives begin and end.


	17. Day 19 - Asphyxiation (Ash)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ash's childhood.

Weekends are usually reserved for children who seeks freedom while tired parents try to secure a few more minutes of sleep. Ash’s neighbourhood was generally safe where children from her school could go outside wherever they wanted before dinner time, and not many drifted afar from the open area where their family could see them. The best entertainment came with a ball, friends and a stick to draw lines to imitate a sports field. She knew most of them since they always together at school, so of course an eleven year old such as herself would want to go out and join them. **  
**

“Where are your eyes wondering?” A tone that’s so sharp, it pierced through Ash’s heart as if she was forced to feel guilty, “You are spilling the chickpeas everywhere.”

“Sorry, savta.” Ash reached out to pick them up in a hurry, but soon retracted as her grandmother did the job for her.

“We can’t waste food. Not in this household.” 

“Can I go after this?” Ash bit on her lips to appear less sullen, hoping the elderly would reconsider if she didn’t look like a spoilt brat.

The grandmother pounded harder in the mortar, “Don’t even think about joining those boys. That’s not your place.”

“But savta, I played with them a few days ago. They like me.” Ash gulped in plea.

The banging escalated into stomps, “They like you? Are you going to marry one of them?”

“No, we’re just friends-”

“Then it doesn’t matter. Men and women aren’t meant to be friends.” The matriarch has a final say in this household. It always has been and probably will be unless the God themselves descend from heaven above in divine emergence. However, that didn’t convince young Eliza who began to perceive the world through an independent curiosity. 

The customs she grew up in her household were considered as the norm, up until she became of age to attend school. The stereotypes were similarly applied there by her teachers, and yet she gravitated towards the children who didn’t care about those rules. Running and tumbling until she was tired, gasping for air after a whole day worth of play. She had never breathed in so much as if her lungs couldn’t take it, but the breeze that cooled her sweat made her feel alive. Therefore as she grew, it was obvious that she craved for what’s within her right.

“Yes they are. People can be friends-”

Savta dismissed without a glance, “It’s not how it works.”

Ash swallowed dryly and tried again without collecting herself, “They are really smart too! We study together and-”

“Women don’t need to study as she will marry a man and be in charge of the household. We don’t need science to make this falafel.” 

“Savta, please! I wanna make more friends and do other exciting things!” Ash nearly yelled but restrained, as she knew what would happen if she raised her voice against the familial authority.

“Now you listen!” The pestle could have broke when Savta slammed it down, “You think that all I do is worthless. Is that what you think?”

“No, that’s not what I mean-” Ash inhaled before she got interrupted again.

“Managing household is our duty! Cooking and cleaning to make the home comfy. Looking after your children to make sure they succeed. Have everything ready for your husband so he can work like a respected man out there. Are they so unimportant to you?” Those words weren’t lies, but it felt like a smother.

“I’ll do it when I become a mom. But how come boys don’t do that? Why don’t dads-”

She cut into what Ash had to say, repeatedly silencing her without a room to breathe, “They go to work. That’s why they need to study and find friends to help.” 

“But, but why can’t I do that? If that’s what it is, I don’t want to marry.” Ash felt a heavy weight blocking her throat. Any further relay of this argument may lead to a drastic encounter, but she didn’t want to stop despite being terrified.

“Eliza! How dare you say that. It’s clear that your mother has given you the wrong ideas. I need to talk to her right this instance.” The stern ultimatum struck Ash on the chest, rendering all of her functions immobile to the point where she forgot to breath. Thoughts jumbled and tangled which gave her a headache; the anxiety of her mother scolding because she disobeyed the elder in the house, the worry that she might be pulled out of school, the anger at injustice thrown at her and most of all, sadness that her grandmother regarded every point Ash made to be wrong. Doubts were settling in and stopped her speculation in motion. She wasn’t sure whether what she wanted is causing such misery at this point, and perhaps it was best to follow what her grandmother had said. But that really wasn’t what she wanted, so it eventually became a conflict between those two thoughts. An eleven year old Ash was merely stuck between them, suffocating in a pressure that wasn’t meant to be handled by someone her age.

“I don’t want it.” Ash barely whispered with little air that hadn’t depleted yet.

“What did you say, girl?” Savta inched closer; towering over her with frightening image that made Ash gasp which helped her to breath in.

“I don’t want it! I don’t want it and I just don’t like it. It’s not fair!” After delivering her final terms, Ash leapt up to sprint out. There was no way that her grandmother could catch a young girl who excelled at races among her peers. Leaving behind the shrill scream of her grandmother still chilled her bones to the core, but her friends’ welcoming smiles encouraged Ash to not regret a single thing. From then on, Ash decided that she’ll face the hardships after attaining what her heart desires.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ash’s mother took her daughter’s side rather than her mother’s.


	18. Day 20 - Trembling (Montagne, IQ)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Montagne and IQ in a pinch.

Mistake number one was that no one bothered to check shoot at least one more bullet in all thirty bodies of White Masks. Number two would the evacuation process. While the others hopped into the transportation unit, IQ stayed a tad bit behind to eradicate any other electronic hazard in the yacht and Montagne volunteered to accompany new cer. They were completely oblivious that a White Mask that’s barely alive used its cellphone to call for a back up, so it was too late when IQ detected the electrical activity. Their helicopter was ambushed by a group of oncoming jet boats that were full of terrorists reinforcements. The pilot made a quick decision to fly away to protect their only method of evacuation, hence IQ and Montagne were left behind with an impromptu mission. To stay low and find a new spot to bunker down. **  
**

“It’s clear here.” IQ whispers and Montagne follows with his shield held tight under his arms to mute out the metallic clunks. Since the terrorists are entering through the main entrance on the first floor, our heroes manage to escape as stealthy as possible. 

“We can’t stay here,” Montagne whips his head back and forth, “They’ll begin to survey the area.”

“We could move towards one of the icebergs and leap across the close gap to reach beyond.” IQ flicks her phone to share a diagram. 

“I see.” Montagne shifts and sighs as he looks down on Le Roc. He could leave it behind, but that’s already a risk on a whole different level. It might give away their position to the enemies and induce a pursuit. He doubts that the White Masks will use his shield to upgrade their own, but there’s always an ‘if.’ Seeing them copying his extendable shield to fight against his comrades; the sheer thought is bane of Montagne’s dignity.

IQ follows his gaze and stares at the famed shield as well, “It’s dark coloured. Very dark against the snow. We can’t have it revealing our position if they see us.” 

“That’s true.” Montagne nods at IQ for helping him to make a logical decision. As they creep between the glacial hills and valleys, Montange decides to drop Le Roc into the water. He watches it sink, hoping the possibility of Mira having a blueprint to replicate his dear friend. 

A few more steps have them arriving at the gap that IQ talked about. Sure, it’s manageable for someone as quick and lightly-equipped as IQ. Montagne is also capable of jumping the distance; he’ll have to strip the armours off, though. 

“Alright. I’ll go first,” IQ steps back for a running start, sprints in acceleration. Her right foot pushes off the edge and left leg stretches out, and within a blink of an eye she lands perfectly on the other side. As she shakes off the impact, IQ readily prepares herself to catch Montagne, “It’s not too slippery. You can do it!”

“I think it’s better for me to throw the armours at you first. To make myself a bit lighter.” He begins to undress.

“Okay, but hurry! You’ll freeze.” IQ frowns at the idea but complies, hence they start the relay of throw and catch. First the helmet, then bullet proof vest and then leg guards. That’s already a few kilograms less on his body.

As he rears for a startup, he notices IQ’s mouth twisting in terror, then gawking as if she was about to yell out but refrains. She pulls out her rifle and shoots whoever’s behind him and that’s a cue for Montagne to hurry his ass up. Curse the age old body that used to carry him faster when a decade ago, but Montagne swears that he leapt far enough to barely land on the tip of the other side. It’s his rotten luck to be shot down from behind that shakes his balance, rendering him unable to hold his weight on foot. 

“Montagne!” IQ couldn’t spare a hand to reach out. She has to retreat for a cover, at least killing a few more so Montagne can swim back up and hide somewhere safer. That’s a hope she clings desperately. 

Sinking into the depth would have been breathtaking if he’s a civilian on tour. Glacial slabs that appear stark white are rather bumpy underneath, blotched in shades of black and leaden blue that’s reflected against sunlight through the sea. He should swim towards the cyan surface above, and yet a streak of inky crimson on his back reminds him to stay under if he doesn’t want to be their target practice. A series of whirs and faint white streaks flash past him. It must be bullets from the White Masks bearing their teeth to kill him. Montagne wastes no time and begins to tear through the arctic flow. 

Every movement aches in pins and needles as the chill pierces his skin and seeps into wary muscles. Eventually he runs out of breath, wriggles in struggle but not yet. He mustn’t break through the icy cover that protects and smothers simultaneously. Montange aims to reach between the crevice of the side that he jumped off, from there he can hide and collect his breath. 

When he finally resurfaces, there’s no one around his hiding spot. Lungs craved for fresh air so he gulps in desperation and allows himself to gasp and cough. For some reason, it’s devastatingly colder above the water than below. The tip of his nose is already numb, drenched hair barely sustains warmth as the wind combs around every part of his scalp. He can still hear the echoing pops from the distance and wishes it’s IQ shooting them all down with her marksmanship. That’s a chance for him to stroke towards the side that she’d be on, so he swims and tries to haul himself up. Those well-tuned arms spazz in sudden motion that stiff muscles can’t handle, and yet Montagne bares the tingling nerves to rise up. 

“Shit.” Situation couldn’t get worse, but it does. He is met with a gust that slaps from head to toe, and within a second he trembles as if there’s drums that beats in uncontrollably fast rhythm within every fibre of his being. Montagne trudges forward while squeezing in a tight hunch. He nearly misses a silhouette of a size able object that’s oddly dark compared to its surroundings. What could it be? Is it an iceberg? Or even a predator? As the image becomes clearer, he huffs in tears. 

The helicopter - their helicopter is still there in its unscathed self. Only a few more steps then he can join them. Tell them to hurry back and save IQ so all are safe and sound. There’s nothing he wishes more than a hot drink back in the base, and perhaps an official meeting to fire that darned pilot who left too early. The shudder fades into null, a void that succumbs his entire sensation. Suddenly his view blackens and drowsiness floods in. Sleep shuts him down and Montagne collapses. Why is he here? Where did he drop his shield and are those shadows his comrades or those damned criminals? He doesn’t know.


	19. Day 21 - Laced Drink (Castle, FBI SWAT)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castle met someone who is trying too hard.

Lights? Dim with hues of amber. Music? An undistinguished genre that’s a melodic cacophony. Crowd? Busy and bustling enough to fade in. 

They’re sitting at a bar, freely admiring the neon blue swirls in a glass and clear vodka streaming down in a gracious parabola. The lady who’s been leaning too close is shooting a grin as if that’ll seal the deal between them, and yet Castle can’t help but to shift his gaze behind her where his teammates are cheering at him with thumbs up. 

“So you work as a gym trainer? That’s _hot_.” She imitates a little walking human-figurine by using her fore and middle fingers, and it’s strolling across the wooden table to reach Castle’s well-toned forearm. 

“Yeah, it pays well.” It would be better than this, he reckons. Pulse sticks his tongue out to have it up close his nose as a valiant attempt to thwart off Castle’s composure. Thermite seems to be humoured by such juvenile joke while Ash rolls her eyes. Oh, how Castle aches to join them rather than being wooed by someone who’s wasting both of their times.

“Hey, where are you staring at?” The lady looks behind to find Ash averts her gaze, “So you like some redhead better than me? How rude.” She’s a brunette herself, glaring in agitation and about to leave.

“Oh no,” Castle holds her arms ever so gently and feels no restraint at all. She promptly sits back and pout, making him fully understand that her words were an empty threat to grab his attention, “I’m sorry. I thought she was my work colleague.” Well, the redhead _is_ his comrade for sure. 

“I don’t know. I kinda feel insecure now.” The brunette cusps her cheeks.

“Tell you what. Would you like a cocktail? It’s on me.” Castle pulls out a wallet that’s about to burst open due to a fat stack of cash. 

She easily replaces her frown with the same old grin, “Only if you’re drinking with me. I don’t wanna be the only one who’s drunk because, oh, you know.”

“I understand. Please, feel free to choose.” He hands her the menu and they end up ordering a pair of Long Island Iced Tea. The bartender eyes down at Castle as if his presence with a damsel is a foreshadowing for an unsavory event, but he couldn’t careless. He is here for a good time, after all. Castle dabs his finger on the surface and wipes it off with a cotton chip from his back pocket. 

She rummages through her purse and takes out a rectangular case, “Excuse me. I just need to fix my eyelashes.”

“They look nice as they are.”

“You don’t have to lie.” She insists so he showers her with more compliments. While they share flatteries, a couple of men bumps into him and spilled beer, which they apologise and offers napkins to clean with. After sorting out the commotion, Castle takes one last look at his teammates who are nearly emptying out a jug that has his favourite brand of beer. He then focuses back on his date who’s been patiently waiting for him with a smile still plastered on her face. 

“Okay, I’m done.” She taps on him and smiles while looking not much different. 

“You look stunning,” He lies, “Here, you have some first.” 

She puckers her lips and gently bites on the straw to take a sip, all the while staring straight into Castle who returns the attention, “Mm, that’s delicious.”

“I’m glad,” Castle picks up his own, but puts it down and pulls something else out from his wallet. It’s the same but new cotton chip that’s coloured white in the back and black in the front, to which he peels to reveal labels in red letters, “Hold on. I just need to do this quick.”

“What’s that?” The woman frowns and leans to get a closer look, but Castle reclines to be out of her reach.

“It’s a nifty little thing. I put a drop here,” He pokes into the drink and dabs on the label, “And we wait a bit. I saw two lines before and I hope it’ll stay that way.”

“What? Are you doing a preg test?” She scoffs but her eyes remain somewhat hostile.

“It’s a test, that’s for sure,” He finally cracks a smile, “a single line. It says that you were about to drug me.” As soon as he utters the words, two men from the prior mishap jumps on him. Pulse and Thermite are already on their way to hook their arms under each man’s neck, and Ash dashes to grab the woman by her hair before she bashes the glass on Castle’s head.

“What are you doing to that poor woman?” Someone yells from behind.

“FBI SWAT team. Do not attempt to resist the arrest.” Ash flashes her identification and so does her comrades. The crowd splits into half as they escort the suspects out.

“This is so not _hot_,” Pulse winks at the woman whose face is flushed in ugly anger, “Better try next time if you want to seduce my buddy. But you won’t get a second chance any time soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sidenote: The cotton thing Castle used is called SipChip. I am not sponsored by them in any matter, but I thought it’s a really cool thing to use for those who likes to go out for a drink. [Here’s the official website of their product](https://www.undercovercolors.com/).


	20. Day 22 - Hallucinations (Ying)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She sees things that aren't meant to be out.

“So let me get this straight,” Ying reads over the blueprint and shoots her eyes back at model construction of the Theme Park back in Hong Kong, “Someone have installed a ‘house of mirrors’ sort of room here because there’s a speculation of the White Masks building the same thing there as well?” Upon walking around the installment, she notices that there’s only one entrance and no exit.**  
**

“Yes, ma’am.” The recruit agrees curtly and hands her the report they have received through an email. Ying stares at it in contemplation, wondering where she might have seen this name before. 

“Right,” She also sees a tethered name card attached to the documents. The kind that’s been put away and forgotten in a stale wallet, “Under whose authority did the Rainbow allow this to happen?” Her gaze narrows.

“They say it’s from the committee.” The recruit remains clueless and Ying doesn’t have the patience to scold them for not knowing better. This should have been commenced under SDU’s supervision but neither of her or Lesion were notified. The ignorance is baffling, even downright insulting.

“Contact Liu. Tell him that I’ll have a quick sweep before he gets here, but I may need a… backup.” She thought about adding the word ‘reliable’ rather than a pause, but it’s better to refrain from being condescending. 

“Roger that.” They nod. After watching them using a phone to call Lesion, Ying enters the room with a flashlight. 

The mirror room is spacious than she had expected. It stays true to its classical structure by having the walls made out of mirrors and the convoluting paths forces the spectator to take many different turns far too often. Despite having doubts of the credibility in that report, Ying keeps track of how many turns she takes for the sake of tactical importance. She duly notes of the common distractions such as twisted or multiple imageries, or even some mirrors that looks like an empty path instead of mere reflections from certain angles. There’s also a disco ball and stereo speakers here and there, but none of them have power cables connected. As she continues to walk, there’s a circular room with small mirror balls covering all dimensions in mosaic. This must be the centre since there’s no other way out rather than the way she came from. 

Ying takes a breather and looks around. There are millions of herself scattered in each one of those glasses, all staring back with eyes that’s double the million. Mildly creepy is better than watchful bystanders who judged on what she does or has done. 

_Oh, a female bodyguard? Don’t overdo yourself._ She shut them up with unrelenting success and the training in Tel Aviv proved them wrong. 

_You’re strong for a short one. She didn’t learn close combat to hear such remarks._ All those ignorant dumbasses got their asses beat and noses caved in.

Hostage rescue? _Bet your only participation was negotiation. _Yeah, and you aren’t able to communicate like a decent human being? Shut up and learn. Don’t talk shit if you don’t have scars on you from bullets and knives.

Whoa, you’re driving today? Careful, guys. 

“I-” When Ying is about to growl at her own thoughts, there’s a deafening crash behind her, “Who’s there?”

Instead of a reply, a shadow flickers from her peripheral. 

“Tze Long? Are you here already?” Ying calls out, hoping that it’s not him. That’s why she is here alone and wanted to finish the survey as quick as possible. Seems like it’s time to headout and usher the man out if he’s in here with her.

“If it’s you, stay there okay? This place is a bit of a maze.” Left, right, right, straight, left. She recognises one of the angled mirrors. A right turn from here should be the disco ball. She sees it, alright. Except it’s fallen down and shattered, splayed itself on the floor into fine shards. The string attached to it isn’t cut or snapped, but more like the knot has been undone.

“What the hell?” She reaches for the holster. Having a cold steel grip in palms gives her a sense of security, but she keeps the safety lock on. 

VROOOOOM-

The speaker blasts in maximum volume. A freaking motor noise? She lets out a scoff and contemplates whether this is coincidental or intentional; if it’s the latter, she will at least ask nicely to back the fuck off before punching them in the gut. 

The longer she ventures, confusion grows because all the turns and directions that she remembered are somehow useless. No matter which way she walks, it’s either a blocked end or the same scenery where the mirror ball is. There’s no doubt that someone is moving the walls on purpose, but how? Ying taps on the mirrors and checks there’s a space behind them. And yet when she pushes the mirror, it won’t budge an inch as if there’s a solid concrete supporting its weight. Unsolved peculiarity is quick to turn sour that leaves tingles in her nerves. 

“Shh.” That’s not from her. Another hush tickles her ear and follows children’s giggles. It’s classic jump scare device that’s fuelling her annoyance, boiling such emotion into an anger.

“I don’t know who you are or why you find this funny at all,” Ying clenches on the handle of her gun, “But if you don’t show yourself now, consider that as a warning.”

“But did you warn those people who you crashed into?” It’s still a high-pitched child’s voice that’s on the verge of changing, “Did you?” Now it drops an octave, resembling an adult male. It’s as if someone slowed down a recording from a cassette tape.

“So you’ve done your homework. Fucking funny.” Ying hesitates no more. She strikes one of the mirrors and let her reflection break into jagged pieces.

“Oh, I’m scared.” A shadow whips past, allowing itself to be shown as a shimmer on a mirror from Ying’s left side.

“You better be.” Ying spins around to aim whoever was on her five o’clock. Still, there’s no one.

“Mama, I’m scared,” A child’s whine is heard again, “Why are you bleeding on the pavement?”

Ying rolls her eyes and proceeds to shatter all the mirrors around her. “Do you even know how quick we moved to escort those who are injured? You’re making it sound like a disaster but we managed.”

“So it wasn’t a tragedy? What a hypocrite. You don’t care about civilians at all.”

“I owned up to my mistakes,” This conversation is reminding her of certain someone who she argued recently, “While _he _doesn’t.”

“No, you are the same. Killing people and think it’s okay as long as it’s a just cause. As long as your superiors throw compensation money while you’re put to rest for a few months. Those civilians suffer more than that.” Who the fuck is this, reading the state of mind that she was in all those years ago?

“Who are you?” Ying stares into one of the shards that’s fallen on the ground. Her own face appears twisted and perplexed, and yet the other shards shows her smiling back. Upon realising the freaky nature of this event, Ying stumbles back to see all of the shards, how each of them bear an image of her face. Some are in hysterical laughter, some has her cheeks dirtied with leaking mascara. The most notable of them all have Ying pointing the gun, as if she is aiming at herself.

“We can end this conversation. It was a little nudge so you won’t forget. Ever.” Ying in the mirror tilts to align her eyes with the sight. 

“Good. You can fuck off.” Ying, who’s quite certain that her real self is not in the mirror, also aims to pull the trigger at the shard that’s been pestering her. One pull and perhaps she can get out. Escape from this nightmare.

A hand pulls appears out of nowhere and instantly pulls her gun upward. A loud blam hits the ceiling and the aftershock in her palms feels like a slap of spark that awakens Ying from a daze.

“_妹妹_! What’re you doing?” He shakes her by the shoulder. As Ying stirs to collect herself, she stares at the man in front of her.

“Tze Long,” It’s baffling that she took this long to recognise a fellow teammate, “You- What are you doing here! I told you to wait.” She yells while being worried for him due to his childhood trauma that rendered him mildly claustrophobic. 

“And what, find your dead body on the floor after sending someone else in?” Lesion growls back.

“I wasn’t going to die? I was about to shoot that mirror down there.”

“No,” Lesion takes the gun off from her and locks the safety pin, “You were aiming at yourself. Arms bent inward and all.”

“What?” A bone-chilling dread washes over as she gawks in denial.

“Mei Lin, I think it’s time to talk. I know you don’t like being introspective with other people because it feels vulnerable,” Lesion swallows before he chooses his words carefully, “But just talk to me. You know I’ll listen. You know I won’t judge.”

Ying surveys her surroundings carefully, turning her head in slight and gradual motion. The ‘house of mirror’ was such a huge maze before when all seemed unclear. However, it has shown its true size as all of the mirrors are either broken or fallen down; as if Ying has been looping in a circular motion despite having a clear memory of her tracks.

“Yeah,” She shudders at an elongated shadow on the floor. It’s from the thin wall that felt rigid before, so that shadow is definitely not some sort of child-demon who’s been playing tricks in her mind, “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Thank you for letting me know.” As they leave the area, Lesion dials to organise a team who’ll dislodge the structure as soon as possible. Ying asks him whether he heard from a recruit who was with her before, but he says it was a female’s voice rather than their own guys. So many questions left unanswered; perhaps it’s better to leave them be until the team finds the real culprit behind this cruel prank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this ficlet for the ‘Day 5 - Gunpoint,’ but decided against it because I didn’t know how to make it work (stopped after the VROOOOM- part.) Pity that I made it work now, but better late than never! And hallucination is also a theme here as well so it worked out too.


	21. Day 23 - Bleeding Out (Kapkan, Glaz, Rook, Lion)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They are out, taking cover in a shelter on mountains.

“Wow, this is a really juicy steak.” Talking while shoving a mouthful piece of meat is rather boorish to some. Not to the Russian operators, though. They flash a good-natured nod at Rook and shrug their utensils in agreement.

“You can thank Maxim. No one catches deers like him.” Glaz pats on his teammate who’s rearing to shrug off the compliment.

“Thank you for this delicious meal. I never thought we would eat such feast out here.” Rook taps a playful fist on the hunter but refrains when the said man glares back. 

“What do you mean by ‘out here’? We have shelter and fire. That’s good enough.” Kapkan sinks his teeth into a thick slap freshly out of grill. They are lucky to have found an abandoned lodge in the middle of winter mountain, or else the tent wouldn’t have withstood the howling gust that’s echoing around them.

“Well,” Rook wonders if that wasn’t hot but averts his gaze, “It’s out in the wild. Not close to the city, just us and the mountains.”

“That’s how nature intends us to be.” Kapkan sighs as he stares out the window as if his soul is channeling to the falling snow flakes that covers all. Fragility binding and laying itself on landscapes that no mere human can conquer. 

Lion stops chewing as he shifts away from Kapkan in wariness. “So how did you catch this one?”

“Easy. Antler traps.” 

“And we shot it on its head.” Glaz taps on his trademark rifle.

"Good that you didn’t make it suffer.” Lion cuts into his piece with a knife.

“Well. That’s not the real reason to kill it instantly,” A haughty sneer from Kapkan tenses the mood, “We don’t want it to struggle when we hang it upside down.”

“Why would you do that?” It’s a mumble, but Rook makes himself heard despite having one whole grilled potato stuffed in his mouth.

“You see,” Kapkan eagerly pushes his plate aside as if he’s been waiting for this moment. From his backpack, he pulls out a seven-inch hunting knife that gleams in its graphite glory, “We slice it’s stomach open before hanging it up. Taking all the intestines, heart and lungs out. Don’t call me cruel because it’s all for the other scavengers who’re in need for food,” He scoffs at Rook who’s squirming a little, “And then severe the head right under its chin, hang it on a tree by its hindlegs and let blood fall down in a large tub.”

“You collect the blood?” Lion finishes the last bit of venison. His eyes are unfazed, or rather they twinkle in curiosity.

“Sometimes. But it won’t last until we leave this area.” Kapkan lowers his gaze in regret as he explains how the blood had to be disposed of in a nearby river. He also mentions how white the field was, emphasising the danger of attracting stronger predators.

“What, what did you do with the head?” It’s a surprise that Rook hasn’t finished his meal. That’s a rare occasion.

“Antler sells good. Skin and teeth can be used as well. The rest of meat is still attached on its skull and that’s not ours to eat.” 

“I see.” Rook gulps and wonders if the howls are actually the wind or some other animal that’s closer to canine sorts. 

“It’s a pity. Maxim hardly leaves out anything that he handles,” Glaz pats on the man, “But we must be thankful.”

Rook hurriedly finishes the food that he hesitated to it, “Thank you, Maxim.” 

“Don’t thank me. Thank the nature. Pay gratitude to the larger system.”

“I thank the food chain,” Lion agrees, “The privilege to stay atop.”

“A bear would laugh at that.” Kapkan smiles for the first time in a while and Lion reciprocates by handing him a pack of cigarettes. Tension dissipates as they begin to relax. Although Rook is still confused of why Lion’s remark put Kapkan at ease, Glaz distracts him by showing intricate sketches that he’d done throughout the day.


	22. Day 24 - Secret Injury (Nøkk and co.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nøkk is slow to realise who are there for her.

There are some morning that’s incomparably gruelling. She exerts extra effort to thwart off the slumber that binds her on the mattress, and tries to pry off those dry and heavy eyes. When she finally gets up, her limbs are heavy as if the nerve cells are still dormant from sleep they yearn for. Regardless, she walks out of the dim curtained-room. The bathroom mirror doesn’t hide the bruises, cuts and grazes on parts that are particularly bony; shoulders, elbows and knees. Also add a broken rib from a fall. All common places of injury when traversing cramped space under a building complex infested with a drug cartel. She had visited Doc for treatment and have been recovering ever since without exempting herself from regular duties.**  
**

These aren’t results of a few days of work. Accumulated damages over weeks, but it’s her conviction to function hundred percent while undercover. Never the hundred and ten; just hundred despite feeling barely above fifty. Hence it became a habit to hide injuries even among her troops, which helped upkeeping the morale. What she doesn’t realise in her current work environment is that there are some veterans who possess insight that’s sharper than the average.

Her phone rings and she let it sing the first two tunes before picking up, “Hello, Six.” She greets the new foreman of Rainbow.

“Hi! How are you?” A bright and chirpy greeting from the other end.

“Good.” That’s not a lie since she isn’t great or bad.

“Good to know. I just wanted to tell you that you’re off-duty this week.”

“That’s unusual. Under whose authority?” Nøkk laughs to pass it off as a playful curiosity.

“Mine. Have a good day.” Harry reciprocates the jolly manner and his is genuine. He hangs up without giving her a time to disagree and she doubts he’ll pick up when called back. Looks like she’ll use this favour to gather some more intel for her next locations to be and organise data on the laptop.

Walking along the sunlit corridor is almost like a scenery from tranquil Sunday movie. Nøkk hadn’t realised how some sights are memorable when she allows herself to relax, and the sheer thought of the cosy shared lounge brings out a chuckle. She would have continues to chuckled if the rib doesn’t hurt, so a smile settles in to compensate. 

“Morning.” A gentle voice nudges her from cinematic wonder. 

“Good morning.” She replies to Glaz who’s carrying a duffel bag. They exchange pleasantries until she notices how his eyes shift, as if he is trying to find something within her. 

Glaz excuses himself and searches into his bag, “Would you fancy a home brew?”

“I never turn down on gifts.” She shrugs.

“Here you go.” He hands out a clear bottle that has honey-coloured liquid.

“Is this a mead?”

“No. Kvass,” Glaz explains the ingredients and cooking method, and how Kapkan is never satisfied with the quality that Tachanka concocts. Therefore the large five litre worth of Russian health drink is reserved for Glaz and Fuze who are usually happy with what they can have, “Have some when you can. It’s good for you.”

“Duly noted. I’ll return the favour next time when we hit the bar.” They share a handshake and part; leaving Nøkk slightly confused of the good-natured gesture that seemed too sudden. As she reaches the lounge, it has a few operators who are sitting on big couches. She thanks the chance of having an armchair all to herself and sits rather slowly to not aggravate the injury.

“Heya! Haven’t seen you in a while.” Alibi is quick to call her across the room.

“You know how it is. Always busy.” Nøkk opens her laptop, wanting to focus rather than chitchat. She expects Alibi to respect that, to which she guesses correctly. Drowning herself into the background noise while tapping on keyboards is tireless work. In fact, quite effortless to the point where her stomach grumbles in hunger after three hours since she arrived at this room. Nøkk decides to head down to the cafeteria and nearly misses out on a small jar that’s been placed on her foot. On her foot! How did anyone manage to balance a jar that has lavender bath salt without her noticing? She suspects Alibi and disregards the namesake.

Cafeteria is not as empty since it’s nearly lunchtime. Some people appear excited to have a Korean menu that’s been cooked by Dokkaebi and Vigil. Fortunately it’s not as disastrous as last time, thanks to Hibana who volunteered to be a drill sergeant disguised as a helpful angel. 

“Is it okay if we sit here?” Jäger and his cohorts scoot by, to which Nøkk graciously allowed. The Germans aren’t the loudest bunch while eating, so she’ll still be able to focus with her laptop open.

“Finally happy to see some sun after all those cloudy days.” She hears Blitz trilling in excitement. 

“Just a sun, Elias. No need to act like a restless puppy about it.” Judging by the yawn and lazy mannerisms, she guesses that’s Bandit.

“I do wonder where Monika went. She’s missing out.” Jäger voices a concern. In midst wondering where IQ would be, Nøkk shakes to ward off the distraction. Perhaps she should move away after finishing what’s on the tray.

“Haven’t you heard? There’ll be a power outage in half an hour.” Bandit shrugs.

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“No, don’t worry. The main power for facilities will be on, but not for the casual internet and plugs in our dorm. You better charge your phone soon.” Bandit laughs at Blitz who yells about ultimate power saving mode on his Android phone. That remark also makes Nøkk check her laptop battery and she instantly regrets not charging the damn thing overnight. 

“Is yours charged enough?” Jäger asks and it took awhile for her to notice who the question is directed at.

“Oh. Oh yeah, don’t worry.” She closes it before any of them can take a look.

“I hope you saved whatever you were working on,” Bandit also chimes in, and yet his tone of being considerate somehow sounds different from Jäger, “Or you can charge it on my car battery.” The wink appears suspicious than good-natured.

“Thank you for your concern. Enjoy your meal, gentlemen.” She walks out and can still feel a pair of eyes that follows. Now that was certainly weird, combining with previous encounters. Do these people know that she isn’t all that well? Doc wouldn’t have leaked her privacy since he’s the type to regard professionalism above all else. It could be Harry who told the others about her condition. And if it is, then she misjudged his character of being someone reliable. Working under a tattletale doesn’t sit right with her. 

But then how useful would it be to complain about your boss when you are bound by contract? Rather than let the doubt grow into malice, it’s better to talk to him directly. Yes, that’s what she’ll do after leaving the laptop in her dorm. 

Storming along the corridor in blind thought has her bumping into someone. It’s not even a minor shove, but a full-on thwack on her shoulder that sends warning signs on her sore body. She doesn’t falter or scream, and neither does the other party who’s frozen on the spot.

“Sorry,” He wavers in nervousness, “I should’ve looked.”

_Yeah, you should’ve_. But so did she, “Same here. Are you alright?” Her shoulder is far from being ‘alright.’ 

“I’m fine, but you’re sweating.” Maverick hovers his hands on her, and then sighs, “Let me take you to Kateb.”

“That’s okay. He treated me already.”

“It’s bleeding.” He’s right. Nøkk touches to check and there’s a slight cold damp under her singlet.

“Hm,” She bites into her cheek, “That’s not good. Thank you for letting me know.” Nøkk then turns to walk away and thought that gives him a clear message to not follow. 

“No, really. I’d like to return the favour.” And yet he follows, asking if he could carry her laptop.

“That’s a long time ago, Erik. I did what anyone would have done.”

“But they didn’t, or couldn’t. You are the one who managed to get me out of there.” Maverick reminds Nøkk of the work she’s done, how the intel she gathered in enemy’s quarters saved a number of lives, including him, “Allow me to help this time.”

Help. That’s the common denominator of what’s been happening today. It’s what she’s been giving while staying in the shadows, but hardly permit herself to receive as she preferred to withstand the hardships alone. The concept had been only reserved to her mother since she hardly trusted anyone around, so she forgot to recognise acts of kindness when people show it. 

“Okay. Just my laptop,” Nøkk hands it over to him, “But not me. I know you’re about to ask that as well.”

“You saw through me.” Maverick replies with a grin. It’s rare to witness an honest side of him, especially how he’s infamous for being hard to read. Nøkk wonders why she is granted such privilege, but regards it as being his life saver. Not that she disregards other people’s kindness, but it’s also a pleasant surprise to have someone who is willing to approach her directly (yes, pun also intended,) and so she may let her guard down just this time.


	23. Day 25 - Humiliation (GIGN)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rook needs some help and Lion is there for him.

There’s an idea and they call it a ‘team building exercise.’ It was Castle who suggested for his own crew, but Harry has taken a liking to it and expressed his interest to adapt and implement. Basically it’s a movie review club; one movie a month and the team has to write a collective report. Participation is voluntary, but prize for writing the best review is a handy sum of coupons or any other benefits that’ll prioritise their team. **  
**

“Tonight’s the night,” Twitch wavers a DVD jacket that has some corny 3D generated images plastered on, “We can’t leave this to the last minute.”

“This is a waste of time.” Lion scoffs but his hands are already greasy from popcorns that he’s been chomping on.

“Hands off!” Twitch slaps Lion’s paw away, “If you aren’t going to make an effort, we can divide the share without you.”

“It’ll be fun, _ami_.” Montagne rips another packet of popcorn to heat up in the microwave and assures Twitch that there’s more to cook.

“Let him go if he’s going to be uncooperative,” Doc shrugs lazily while melting into the couch, eagerly savouring the soft comfort and free time that’s not paperworks, “Harry said minimum of four people. We’ll do fine without him.”

“Yes! We can do this. Right, Julien?” Twitch hangs her arm around his shoulder. They are only a year apart but their dynamic is of an older sister to younger brother.

“Yup. Uh-huh. Yes.” Rook replies while nodding in an exaggerated eagerness. He scoots next to Doc to relax as well.

That leaves Lion apart from the group, but we all know the supposed prime predator needs a pack of pride to survive. Hell, this may be the exact purpose behind such juvenile group activity. If their new Six wants to play the role of peacemaker, then so be it. He’ll have to swallow his arrogance and use this opportunity to narrow the rift between him and the others.

“Fine. Let’s get it over with.” He slumps next to Rook with arms crossed.

“Oh, _thank _you. That’s one less fake writings to be done.” Twitch rolls her eyes and hands Lion a bowl for himself. 

Rook shifts to be comfy between the two older males, “What genre is it?” 

“It says ‘Cosmic Horror, Sci-Fi.’ That’s something new.” 

“I’m genuinely curious.” Montagne sits on the floor with his back leaning on the armrest of the couch, conveniently situating himself on the side to avoid blocking the view.

“Last chance to leave, Olivier,” Twitch sniggers at Lion while pushing the CD into the laptop that’s connected to a larger screen, “Maybe it’s better for you to leave. We can’t have our Christian boy screaming for his _maman_.” 

“Get to it.” Lion growls and Twitch obliges in smug glee. Doors are closed and the lights dim, thus the eerie mood is instantly set with shrill violins and underlying bass as the movie begins.

The content is nothing of in-depth or award-winning. It’s akin to a B-rated jumpscare, or perhaps an indie film with staff who are stupidly overqualified in CGI and cosmetic department. Plot is shit and characterisation is your typical foolish teenagers who are played by actors in their mid-twenties. The only salvageable feature of this joke is the monster and its design. Cthulhu and the Thing’s love child; perhaps born prematurely judging by its petite size. Oh, but the horrid malice it bears! It’s basic form shifts into either tentacled-beast or thorny bare-skinned crab that scuttles to find victims. 

Lion puts the popcorn aside when the monster creeps closer to the poor man’s head. When it slithers into every holes on his face, the gurgles and agonising screech succumbing to a muffle. Seeing the eyeballs pop and ooze is squint-worthy, but he doesn’t feel the need to look away. Instead, Lion scans around to observe his teammates’ reactions. Twitch has her lips sucked in for anticipations and Montagne is barely fazed as if due to boredom. Seeing Doc mumbling about the biological inaccuracies is laughable, so Lion reaches into his pants-pocket for a phone to record the ordeal. 

“WAH!” A lone yelp breaks their attention away from the screen. Lion didn’t intend to touch Rook’s hip and startle him, but the pale complexion and shaken gaze from the younger man tells him otherwise.

“Julien,” Lion wonders if he should apologise or ask, “Are you okay?” He chooses the latter.

“Yup. I’m fine,” Rook rubs his palms against those tense thighs, “Don’t worry, guys. Let’s keep on watching.”

“Okay.” Twitch resumes the film and the gore reels back on. However, Lion’s sole focus is now on the man sitting next to him. There were signs that he hadn’t noticed up until this moment; the subtle trembling, laboured breathing and occasional reclining to lean behind Doc’s shoulder. _By God, Rook has been scared to death all this time_. The whole hour and a half.

To prevent another jump scare from Rook, Lion gently pats on the man by the shoulder and asks, “Are you really okay?”

“Yeah, I’m _fine_.” Rook replies through his teeth.

“No, you aren’t,” Lion whispers back, “You’re shaking.”

“Olivier, please. I don’t want them to know.” Rook pleas and that, Lion cannot understand. Why the bravado when he clearly can’t handle such genre?

“Hey, stop the movie.” Lion taps on Twitch.

“What? Why?” Everybody stares at Lion, including Rook who fidgets. 

“Look, guys-” Lion places a hand on Rook as he glances down, to which Rook stares back. He sees the youngster shaking his head ever so slightly, brows creased and a silent mouthing of a ‘no.’ Rook is desperately begging Lion to not expose whatever he feels ashamed of. 

“Yes, Olivier?” Twitch sighs exasperatedly, “What is it?”

Lion exhales as well in a similar manner. He pinches on the bridge of nose and bites the tender flesh inside of his cheek, “I don’t want to watch this.”

“Oh?” Montagne looks back in mild curiosity.

“I knew it! I knew you’d be scared.” Twitch lets out a cocky guffaw.

“Call it what you want. But I’d rather not have nightmares tonight, or else I’ll have to pray all night and sleep when there’s morning light.” Lion shrugs as he thwarts off the endless teases from Twitch. 

“You know,” Doc chimes in, “This movie is pretty poor. I mean, we can spend our leisurely hours on other films that are more worthy.”

“That’s a valid point,” Twitch quietens down for a moment, “Pardon me. I should have gotten something better that suits everybody.”

“It’s not your fault. Harry gave this to us specifically,” Montagne passes her favourite bottle of juice, “Apparently this might be a new prototype for an event of a sort, but I think he just wanted us to bond over a bad movie to complain on.”

“I’m pretty sure he had good intentions,” Doc yawns and pulls in Rook for a nudge, “What would you like to watch?”

“Oh. I’m not sure if you guys will like it-”

“Go on. Anything will be better than whatever that was. I’ve still got goosebumps, you know?” Lion scratches over his shirt.

“I guess if you insist-” Rook brightens up. He scoots closer to Twitch and starts to log into his Netflix account, which gives some room for Lion and Doc to converse without any interference.

“I saw you nitpicking on everything. Does your doctorate degree pays you well to be a horror movie critic?” Lion leans back with a smirk.

“I was doing that to put Julien at ease,” Doc yawns, “But you did a decent job. Not bad.”

Lion is aware that someone of Doc’s caliber would see through an amateur act, “So you knew.”

“Of course. And it’s hard to ignore Julien when he cannot sit still. This couch is too small for three men.”

“It’ll be tighter fit when I hop on there,” Montagne jumps between Doc and Lion, and proceeds to hook his arms on each man’s neck, “Well done, you two. Looks like Harry’s magic is already working.”

“Still got a long way to go, _ami_.” Lion grunts at sudden impact, but witnessing a faint grin on Doc, hearing a content sigh from his best friend and having Rook and Twitch chuckling at corny some chick flick titles; that’s much better than the uncomfortable atmosphere they had to go through. Despite wondering if he should correct what he had just said, Lion decides to let it slide. Close bonds aren’t something to be defined in words or thoughts. It’s meant to be felt heart to heart, skin to skin.


	24. Day 26 - Abandoned (Clash)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clash before she joined Rainbow Six.

Unless there’s an omniscient being who’s able to cut through the thick slab of clouds, London shall remain in shady grey. Withered bushes, rusted wrought iron fences and tombstones decorated with graffitis. Reading upon those colourful languages is a black comedy at best, and Clash can’t help but laugh at the irony as she feels a chill droplet on her bare head.**  
**

“Hey, Tray.” She stops in front of him. Her wise friend, Tray Pearson, was someone who understood the anger within people even if they didn’t understand the peace he offered. The idealist who asked her to not blame the looters who stabbed him to death, because he called them the younger brethren who are misled. Clash could have chased those idiots and showed her piece of mind in forms of fists. How they shouldn’t have killed a man who tirelessly worked for human rights and dignity, and yet here his name lay while the body scattered as ash long time ago.

“Those lazy pigs aren’t tending you proper.” Clash kneels down to pluck off wild weed. Grimacing at nasty black streaks of spray paint, she takes a mental note to call up the graveyard keeper and chew his ears out. 

“It’s been a while, huh?” The memory trip flies way back when they first met. She was a battered baseball bat tethered in bandages and dried blood while he resembled a skinny Martin Luther King Jr. The man spoke in crude eloquence as he talked about his wishes. The desire to have a better life for those who aren’t privileged, for those whose skins aren’t fair. The choice of words were full of slang and dark humour, and yet people didn’t dismiss him for preaching some la-la land. He suggested goals that are achievable and realistic to those who listened. For those who were adamant and fierce like Clash, he visited paid personal visits one by one. No matter when and wherever, Trey was there to make people reconsider. 

“Fuck, remember that time when you stepped in? I nearly had your head for a homerun.” Clash can’t forget the heart stopping moment when Tray shielded someone who offended her on the spot. In his defense, he didn’t let the foul mouthed racist off the hook. After an hour long conversation and emotional climax, the racist was bawling their eyes out before scurrying away as if they’ve been touched by someone from above. Since then, she watched him close to learn the power in words than brute force, but the closest she learned was to swear like a sailor who’s at least sober.

“I thought I’d be the one biting the dust way before you,” She lodges a cork between her teeth to open a whiskey and pours it over, “But damn. Look at us.” A translucent golden stream splatters against the polished granite.

“Things became different after you butt into my business. People began to follow you for wisdom, but they came to me when those bastards fucked us over. They got madder when you died so I thought there was no rock bottom to hit.” Clash sips on the rest that hasn’t emptied out yet.

“But it got worse. People weren’t satisfied with what I offer on the table and the riot was turning into village folks with pitchforks. Funny how I saw what you saw when you weren’t there to be a preacher.” Police force saw her group as nuisance and the civilians regarded them as vandals. Government remained demeaning and general public feigned ignorance. Who was willing to listen? The anguish against injustice. Being painted lesser, incompetent and unacceptable by default. She’s been punching at brick walls far too long and she did it along with those who suffered. They all bled, they all smeared their own skin on barriers that stood tall. But what good is picking a fight on rotten culture that’s instilled in the society? Clash saw the pain and how their cause derailed afar from what they truly desired. 

“So I left. Well, kind of left because I joined the coppers.” That was the most dangerous decision to make and it certainly had bigger backlash than she anticipated. She attained some names like a rat for being an insider and then a deserter when she left. The new workplace gave her weary glare and whispered unfavorable gossips.

‘Who knows whether she’ll leave this job too? Just like how she abandoned her lackeys.’ Whoever said that had their nose caved in and that’s a violence that no one clapped at. From the deepest part of her mind, she always knew the consequences in destruction. It’s the moral value she chose to sacrifice for the riot, but it became all too clear when the police force punished her for it.

“I abandoned no one. You’d know that.” No one could stop Clash from excelling what she set her mind on. Not her former friends who insulted and struck her head with the same bat she used to wield, not the so-called colleagues who bid on her failure. Clash tried to arrive way before the riot and put down the racists on the spot. That also applied to the mob because she would catch whoever led that riot. She tried to the chaos by becoming the wall that her crowd used to bash on. Accomplishments and commendations proved her worth in the system she used to despise, and that made certain impact amongst the workforce by being iconic of her demographic. 

“I’m pretty sure this isn’t what you envisioned,” Clash lay a flower wraith under his name, “But I’m making some progress. I’m looking for a solution. I want us to make an impact when expressing what’s done wrong to us. So I want them to not make the same mistake as I did, but fuck. I can’t speak for everybody.”

She uses the hem of her jacket to wipe off the dust on the tombstone, “Alright. I’m not here to be sappy over what had happened. Here’s what I want you to see,” A letter reveals with a symbol that has number six on it, “Look! I’ve been recruited to an international anti-terrorist group. Morowa Evans is going global!”

Her voice trilled in excitement as she reads over the details, “This is an opportunity, bruv. Gaining an international influence! I’ll come back with an even bigger influence. Just you wait until I come back, Tray. I’m not leaving anyone behind by taking this chance.”

Clash pats on the cold stone for one last time before walking away, “There are bigger nut jobs out there and I can’t abandon those who hurt from them. It’s like what you did. Butting into other people’s business, except I don’t talk as nice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that I finished the ficlet, it’s not quite matching with the theme ‘Abandoned.’ I guess the idea is there (Tray’s grave being abandoned in a while, Clash had abandoned her group and how she won’t abandon those in need.) But oh well, it worked better in my head.


	25. Day 27 - Ransom (Mozzie, Gridlock)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mozzie's experiencing well hell of a night.

This is bad. In no way he intended to be in such a predicament, but he won’t deny the lack of responsibility and common sense that led up to this moment. Mozzie assess the situation by judging what he knows and sees. He’s in a residential house with one window open, hands and ankles tied while being laid on a floor and two guys are asleep while clutching on their small fold-able knives. The last thing he remembers is a bar fight with a bunch of youngsters and they decided to settle the score through a short course race. Of course he won by five seconds and what’s the prize he won? A knockout bottle on the back of his head from their butt hurt leader that rendered him unconscious. **  
**

“Tell you what. I’ll hand him over for four hundies.” A gruff voice he recognises in the midst of a massive headache. That must be the sore loser who’s trying to sell Mozzie off.

The phone is switched on speaker and that’s another voice he knows, “Four hundies? Mate, is this your first time negotiating for human bodies?” _Yeah, tell him Tori. I’m worth way more than that. _

“What? No. Choose your words carefully or I’m going to kill him.”

“Right. Where do you live, kid? Don’t kill him just yet because that’s going to be my job.” _Uh oh_. Mozzie can hear her laughing but he knows better. The way she barks out as if there’s a good comedy show out there, but dropping a note down in abrupt seriousness. Gridlock is beyond pissed.

“You’ll regret this, lady!” The guy spews out more insults, so Mozzie won’t touch him for Gridlock’s sake. Maybe she’ll go after this stupid buffoon instead of Mozzie himself. 

While they are busy bickering over the phone, Mozzie crawls on his knees and elbows to creep towards one of the sleeping men. Now that his eyes are adjusted to the dim moonlight, he observes how these ‘guys’ appear no older than early twenties. _Shame on you, Max Goose. You done fucked up. You got kidnapped by some children who fantasise about human trafficking from some Hollywood movies._ They didn’t even bend Mozzie’s arms behind, making it all too easy for him to just reach and carefully pull the knife out from their loose grasp. How ridiculous is it to have his limbs free within minutes after waking up from being clonked out. This is a whole new level of bad. It’s downright embarrassing. 

“Do me a favour. Wake him up and put him on the phone.”

“Like hell I would-” The man couldn’t finish when a prickling sensation pokes on his neck. As he slowly turns around, there stands a short Freddie Mercury look-alike who spits bloody phlegm at his forehead. 

“Pass me the phone, wanka.” Mozzie snatches it away and sighs. It’s his damn phone he forgot to put password lock on it. 

“Hello?” Gridlock demands a response.

“I can explain-”

“_You_. You DAMNED plastered son of a dingo. Told me that you’ll be back by midnight, you said. Is this why you told me to bugger off and leave before you? What the fuck went in your brain?” The thundering growl shakes the phone, to the point where the speaker cannot handle such volume. Mozzie tosses the phone down as he shoves a hand into the dumbfounded kidnapper’s pocket.

“Hey! Don’t touch down there!” 

“Don’t fret, mate. Your wallet’s bigger than what your mum gave you,” Mozzie pulls out to read upon the driver’s license, “Write these down, Tor.” He proceeds to say the names of the hooligans who attempted to hold him captive.

“Got them. Make sure you take pictures of their faces too. It’s the least you can do.” Gridlock sighs. Mozzie can already picture her running a thumb against the edge of a spanner.

“That’s too much work.” Mozzie leads the man back into the room, where his sleeping friends have their hands and ankles tied.

“Do it. Or I’m going to tell Lozza on you.” 

“Really? Is that how deep our friendship runs?” Mozzie cowers at the name of his wife.

“Try me, bitch.” Gridlock laughs again, and the genuinity of her reaction worsens his headache. 

“Fine. Bloody snitch,” Mozzie wavers the knife at the man who’s been kneeling down patiently. Watching those beady eyes following his every movement, Mozzie decides to drop the knife. The man lunges to pick up the weapon; such fast momentum allows Mozzie to jut his knee against the man’s head. An agonising crunch echoes in a small space and a loud thud. Finally something that satisfies Mozzie at his worst night.

“Don’t loiter around this time.” Gridlock continues to nag.

“Alright, alright. But before that, I need to ask you something.”

“If you are asking for my forgiveness, no.” She’s stern and that’s going to take at least two dozen craft beers.

“Nah, not that. Am I really just four hundies?” Mozzie aligns the hooligans into a line for one hell of a group photo.

“No,” Gridlock’s sigh can almost pierce through the screen, “Of course not.”

“Heck yeah, Tor-”

“I would sell you for a cheeseburger. Now hurry your ass up.” She hangs up and misses out on the colourful array of offensive speech from her dearest friend.


	26. Day 28 - Beaten (Buck/Caveira)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blackmail. Death match. What will become of them in the end?

It all may seem a distant memory. Sceneries flood in as he remembers the subtle ripples of brown hair stroking against his fingertips, and the warm breath that tickled his beard.

“What was it like?” He flicked on the curly locks, her locks that’s all too precious to be played with.

“Hm?” Her voice cracked, still full of sleep.

“Growing up with lots of brothers.”

“Oh, it’s easy. Wrestle and tumble everyday, punching occasionally” She mounted on top and pinned his wrists down, “But I found ways to guarantee a win.” A kiss or two and that had her leaning down on him, to which he saw as a chance to flip and switch their sides.

“What’s the secret?” He guided her head onto his shoulder for a gentle embrace.

“Like I’m gonna tell you!” A hard tug on his stubble but it didn’t hurt. He chuckled instead, shone an open smile that mesmerises her as usual.

“Am I not allowed to know?” He tilts down for a puppy-eye.

And it works every time. “Fine. It’s not even a big secret anyway,” She caressed ever so gently as if the tender moment they share might scatter, “Whenever they get too rough, I-”

***CRACK***

A deafening pound is only a few inches away from Buck’s ear. He jolts in shock and leaps up from the concrete floor that he’s been laying flat on his back, making him wonder when exactly he fell unconscious. Realisation reels in and dread drags his heart down by a tonne. _That’s right. _He was exchanging blows with his true and only, Caveira. The blue and purple blotches on those cheeks he used to fondle. Split gashes that ooze red on her soft lips. Her stomach is tense from bracing an impact from his punches. Buck can’t say that he looks any better because she reciprocated the same level of violence, but having to lay a hand on his dearest is beyond mentally taxing. 

“Whoa, did you see that? She was _so _ready to crush his head open!” A shrill giggle then follows a series of claps and cheers as post reaction. Buck surveys his surroundings and finds no one laughing other than four who are dressed in black. The rest of the crowd are bystanders in handcuffs, shivering in pain and terror as they are forced to watch a game. Sick and twisted scenario that none of them volunteered to participate because their two production managers use rifles as clapperboards.

“No, she wasn’t. That bitch missed on purpose.” Another perpetrator mumbles as they twirl a Cat O Nine Tail whip in their hand. One swing slashes to draw blood on her back, but there are no wince or yelp. Buck is itching to jump at the bastard for hurting his partner. He would unleash hell on these monsters for holding them captive; oh yes, he would rip their throat with buckshots that’s been taken away from him. However, these criminals are using the other hostages as leverage. They also offered a deal that’ll leave him devastated, whether he fails or succeeds.

“I thought the special ops are smart and all that,” The one with a whip drops it and pulls out a knife from their pocket, “But I guess you’ll need a little reminder.” They grab one of the hostages by collar and lands a stab. A deep insertion on victim’s thigh, and two more on the other side in a rhythm that’s as casual as playful taps.

“Stop!” Buck hesitates to lunge forward.

“You don’t want these sheep to hurt? Then do as we say!” That filthy bastard wipes the knife on the other hostage’s hair. 

“The rule’s simple. You take turns in hurting each other, and on the fifth turn you guys fight until death. How simple is that?” 

“I’m gonna pull your nails out.” Caveira kicks on leg of a broken chair.

“Whoa, hold it there tigress. We’ve got camera here and you know how it’ll all look like once we edit things.” A lens gleams on top corner of the room.

“Rot in hell.” Buck shudders while breathing. There must be at least a couple of ribs fractured when Caveira swung a bat on his chest, and that’s probably the reason why he fainted for a short while.

“Oh no. We’ll rot in gold. This is big money on the other side of the web.” Never in Buck’s wildest fears could he have imagined a death by his lovers hands, while being the unwilling star in a snuff film. And yet here he stands, awaiting a blow from Caveira on his last turn. Eyes dart everywhere but on his lover to find an escape route. Perhaps it’s wishful greed to also save those who’re innocent, and Buck wonders if such sense of justice is an arrogance. A foolish optimism in believing they’ll walk out just fine. 

Caveira runs towards him without a word and no one uses the element of surprise better than her. Her fist aims on his rib area that’s on the verge of being broken and beyond, so he guards by folding his arms on his chest. He thought her momentum wouldn’t allow a change of course and it shouldn’t have, but Caveira stops her motion by stepping sideways and lands an upward stream of a blow right under his chin. 

“Holy shit. Don’t tell me he’ll faint again.” They stop giggling for a second. 

“Let him faint. We’ll have her kill him in sleep.” Those words help Buck to remain conscious, gritting his teeth while standing trying to stand tall.

On the contrary, Caveira appears calm and collected. More stoic than ever as she stares down at her boyfriend who’s writhing in ache. A cold and vacant stare as if her mind is elsewhere. 

“It’s your turn now,” She beckons, “Give me all you’ve got.” 

“This chick is crazy. I love it!” Giggle resumes louder.

“I can’t. I can’t do that to you.“ Buck knows her façade all too well. Those legs are spazzing to support her weight, hence body posture is absolutely still to conserve little energy that’s left in her. Her gazes are aimless due to exhaustion and mouth agape from beatings she’s taken. It’s a miracle that she is still awake.

"Coward. Just do it,” Her taunt brings tears into his eyes, “Compared to what my brothers did, this is nothing.” She leans against a wall, giving Buck a place to hit that’ll give fullest of impact on her body.

“I’m so sorry.” He storms with right hand clenched in a tight fist. There’s no need for an exaggerated swing because his punch can exert explosiveness from waist down to her stomach. When flesh meets flesh, the time seem to stop due to an ear-piercing slap. Caveira finally succumbs to pain and falters, gagging in an uncontrollable coughs while forehead rubbing against the floor. She twitches in silence and ceases to move at all. Motionless on the spot in fetal position. 

“I told you to beat, not kill!” The stabbing psycho brings their knife up against Buck’s face.

“No,” Buck heaves while shaking his head, “No!” His legs hurries towards her as he forgets about the blade that slices a skin on his cheekbone.

A harsh pull on the back of his collar separates him from holding onto her limp body, “Move back, asshole! You killed our money fodder,” Stabber places themselves between him and her as they kneel down to check on her vitals, “She’s got pulse. Thank fuck we didn’t have to resort in nectophil-” They stop in mid-sentence. 

“We don’t do corpse play. So is she alive or not?” The giggler approaches since they can’t see other than the back of the stabber, “Hello?" 

"Hey.” There’s reply but it’s not one of them. Behind the stabber, there sits Caveira with a reddened knife that she borrowed, or conveniently snatched from the stabber when they let their guard down with a presumably dead woman.

“Shit-” No amount of laughter escapes when Caveira stretches to plant the knife in their neck. 

Buck is dying to hold her in his arms but his head cools down for a reality check. There are still two alive with rifles in their hands and they stand a few feet behind him. They are more interested in keeping the hostages intimidated, to which Buck is simultaneously thankful and guilty. 

“You didn’t tell me the part where you had to fake death in front of your brothers.” Buck whispers while glancing at the gunners.

“But I pretended to faint and that worked,” Caveira places her head under their bleeding neck since she has no strength to carry them how she normally would, “Grab one as a meat shield.” Her face is painted in a different kind of camo. It’s one hundred percent organic in a literal sense.

Buck smirks back, “What a way to win.”


	27. Day 29 - Numb (Pulse/Thermite)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thermite needs to check on what he fears.

Sewing needle. Sandpaper. Ice cubes. His own flesh in a room temperature and a boiling kettle. Thermite has been preparing these items on a monthly basis for a simple check up. A small test on whether his chemically burnt hands are capable of ‘feeling.’ To see if this wrinkly skin have any nerves left to differentiate textures and temperatures. **  
**

Prickle is easy to determine. It’s best to test when he’s neither cold or hot. One poke on each finger tips, another on cuticles. He runs the pointy edge along the lines of fingers and palms, and also the fleshy bits that have muscles underneath. Minor prickles and stings are hardly felt unless he exerts a push. Sandpaper feels similar, so he stops before risking unwarranted grazes.

Ice cubes are more distinguishable when he holds onto them longer than ten seconds. Thermite continues to clench and let them melt, allowing the drips to travel down the engraved scars.

Now comes the bothersome part of this self-assessment. To work with hot water, Thermite must warm his freezing hands back to a normal body temperature. There were times he prepared a tub of water that’s exactly 98 °F, but that’s difficult to maintain and measure. 

Hence he sticks them under his own armpits or thighs, and it never fails to make him shudder in surprise. Thermite usually watches videos while waiting, but this time he forgets to have a phone handy. Mind drifts along here and there, and it settles on a question he hadn’t thought about in a while. 

_When did he start caring about tactile senses?_ More importantly, _when was the last time he didn’t care?_ There were days when he upheld the safety procedures that his science teachers preached. _Always wear gloves_. It was single-handedly the most fundamental advice to follow and he obeyed up until he graduated from the university. Any time after that, he either became too occupied or was thrown into situations where decisions had to be made within seconds. No one had the time to find gloves when they were under attack from all directions. With his fingers that moved freely and nimble, he saved countless lives including his own. Those third degree burns were battle scars that he outwardly spoken in pride. _Then what changed his mind? _

“Damn,” A spark strikes and it dampens his mood with memories that he buried deep within, “Should’ve got some YouTube on.”

The death of his sister. He rightfully remembers the last visit before she passed away. The synthetic scent of cleanliness was nauseating as he caressed those pale cheeks that resembled the spotless blanket that held her captive. Valves from oxygen mask hissed, but it’s was more of a depleting air balloon that lulled her into an eternal slumber. Jordan sat by the woman who was his best friend of a life time and reached out to hold her hand. As his fingers wrapped around hers, tears welled up at how thin they were.

“Good that you are here. She’s been complaining about how sickness makes her cold.” A nurse’s comment was courteous at best. Then it meandered around the back of his head, raising a question that bugged him to no end. _Did he know whether his sister’s hands were warm or cold?_ The frail frame remained still in his grasp, but that’s all he could feel. The weight and size were obvious, but any other detail like _temperature_ was vague. No matter how much he squeezed and massaged, he thought it’s as warm like his own. Confusion turned into anxiety, then came fear without a warning bell. He thought about lifting her hand away from mattress, but decided against it as if such act might make her uncomfortable. He slowly leaned down to have her hand meet his uninjured skin. Soon his cheek touched the pointy knuckles and the sheer icy coldness froze him on the spot. It’s what his deformed hands couldn’t detect. Denials and excuses didn’t matter because there were no lies in what healthy skin felt.

Flashback ends as it leaves a sour taste in his mouth. Thermite dabs his hands against the same cheek and sighs in defeat. Rather than lightly tapping on the hot kettle, this time he decides to pour out a hot steaming stream in a bowl. The man is ready to dip and parboil. A few inches won’t do much; he must dip and completely submerge the whole hand into a pool that can cook instant cup noodles. Thermite hates the adrenaline rush that pounds his heart. He loathes the body memory yelling at him to stop, as if the brain is having an illusion that tracks back to the life he had before the military. _Fuck this._ On count to three, Thermite shall commence a self-torture and see if this will hurt as it should. If not, then he’ll laugh it off as a big joke while slightly dying inside.

“One, two,” Thermite swallows a dry spit, “Three-” 

“Are you fucking insane?” Someone pulls Thermite away by shoulder. Such harsh force that sends his body flying backward, and yet neither of them falls. A familiar scent wafts behind as Thermite’s head is pressed against the other man’s chest. How he missed the mixture of body sweat and classic army-issued soap.

“I thought you liked lobsters,” A corner of his lips shoots up as he turns around to greet the most lovable egghead he had ever met, “Did you spy on me with your heart detector again?”

“Goddamn it! I’m not joking around,” Pulse clicks his tongue at the weird arrays of items on the table, “You don’t need to do this. Is this what doctors recommend for you?”

“No,” Thermite stands up to smooth out the frown on such a handsome face. His thumb moves onto the tip of Pulse’s pointy nose that has its own charm. Then he proceeds to run fingertips on the barehead that has an even layer of growing stubbles. Upon planting a kiss on the back of Pulse’s hand, Thermite finds out that he might have given his lover a blood-draining panic, “I don’t need a doctor when I have you.” _Yes, he is being cheesier than usual. _But who can stop Thermite from wedging Pulse’s hands under his armpit to share the warmth? 

“Jordan, come on.” Pulse rolls his eyes at the remark, and yet his ears ripen into delectable blush. Thermite can almost taste the heat in his tongue.

“I know, I know. I’ll ask Kateb to be my referral for a specialist.” That concludes the playful banter. It’s too short for Thermite’s liking, but having Pulse to cause a ruckus is a remedy of its own kind. He’d rather be subjected to an affectionate nagging than being alone in smothering silence. 


	28. Day 30 - Recovery (Tachanka)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An introspection from our lovable Lord.

Puncture a wall, you can seal it. Cracked doors are easy to replace and unhinged tables need some screwdrivers and nimble hands. But what’s the use of fixing when they are meant to break? That’s the first-hand experience of witnessing a violent feat from his elder relative during New Years dinner. When she swung her chair, it smashes into pieces; hards and debris flung past him and grazed those cheeks young and tender. No one gave him a straight answer when he asked Aunt Zoya’s tantrum. Adults said she had a little too much to drink. This wasn’t the only member of the family who had irrational meltdown, but he was kept away from the truth which became one of the most difficult life lessons to learn. He was vaguely aware of what’s happening before it came to him.**  
**

It was until he’d built up some renown as a veteran that he began to understand what was happening to his aunt. He wielded the hard-earned experiences as a weapon to smite those who dared murder in front of him, and yet it became a double edged sword as incidents of adrenaline rush accumulated. Slight touches during a walk in busy streets had him take a double look at those who pass by. He found himself preferring a seat that’s situated in the corner when eating out, and also became gradually detached towards material goods. He had seen countless of civilian properties being blown into smithereens. A house that his troops occupied during a mission still had appliances, furniture and all those that’s surely dear to the residents who were forced to leave. 

Feeling unsafe in public and his own home; Tachanka began to believe that human alone shouldn’t be bound in one place. The classic proverb ‘home is where the heart is’ rang true to him, because he regarded himself as the only safe place. To survive, adapt and be useful. Those three qualities could get him anywhere, generally unscathed. Thus when Tachanka reached the age that gave him a false sense of invincibility, he worked and indulged like there’s no tomorrow. He was well-liked by his peers who gave him a sense of comfort because they were comrades who went through similar hardships as he did. That included his family who he genuinely cared for; by spending most of the earnings on his younger sister’s education, Tachanka felt pride through her achievements. Did any of this guarantee that he won’t become like his relatives? _Not really._

When he married, the financial focus diverged towards his wife and son. That became a way to show his support and of course he savoured the precious times he shared as a family. Above all, Tachanka thrived for smiles and laughters of his boy who’s a spitting image of his younger self. Toys and expensive gadgets weren’t what he regarded as quality bond. Rough and tumble on bed, group gathering with other children and outdoor excursions. Tachanka did what his father didn’t. 

The catch is that a good father isn’t necessarily a good husband.

There were pressure to withstand and that’s a challenge even for those who don’t suffer from war trauma. His blunt nature, a quality that used to be admired as honesty, began to hurt those who mattered. Hence that meant less time for nights out after returning from gruelling battlefields. Love meant to conquer all, and yet there were some nights he couldn’t shake off the old habits before marriage. He still drank but within limits to avoid alcohol addiction, but he couldn’t stay in one place without feeling restless. _Was his resolve so weak and futile against the temptation that manifested his head?_ Surely he was far more capable than this. Tachanka wasn’t a young blood; he had a life to settle. Responsibilities to tend and expectations to uphold.

Time didn’t heal anything and their relationship fell apart into a pitfall. No matter what he did or said, they weren’t the right answer. Everything that he learned upto this moment seemed to fail in romance, because such experiences and values were only useful in where he saw chaos. 

He began to doubt his devotion and the very concept of unconditional love. When there was a time to actually have a serious conversation with his wife, he had to leave for a work that’s often on the other side of the globe. Therefore he left before destroying what they hold dearly. Foolish that he counted himself out as a valuable family member through divorce, but at least his loved ones won’t have to see the monster he may become. 

Let’s not paint Tachanka a quitter. He mustered the courage to own up to the mistakes he made and maintained relationships with his son after a proper apology, and the younger sister who berated him understood where he came from. After all, they grew up in the same household.

He doesn’t welcome nor shun the trail of introspection that went through his head. Sure, it’s not the best way to spend his free time in a park while sitting on a bench. The history may be somewhat depressing from a third person’s point of view, despite Tachanka himself didn’t feel it as such. Things happen and he lived through them. Therefore it must be normal for him to have a memory reel at the sight of young families enjoying their weekend afternoon. A father carrying a little child on his shoulders. A mother chasing after her tiny devil in frenzy. Bunch of teenagers taking selfies with their parents who aren’t as prepared. 

It’s within his right to feel jealousy, wonder and curiosity. The ‘what if’s. 

_What if he didn’t marry. _

_What if he didn’t have to kill and worry about being killed._

_What if he chose a career on his own._

_What if he wasn’t born in a military family at all._

_What if he had a choice?_

“_иди в жопу _(Fuck off.)” He drowns the doubts by taking a big swig from a water bottle. Yes, he admits the regret. Then who should he blame? Why should he blame? He made those decisions and steered his own course. Is this what they call a midlife crisis? An overdue homework that’s disguised as a self-reflection? Then he’s ready to catch up. He is ready to open up the heart that’s tempered into steel; or so as he thought, because the tough exterior that appeared seamless and sturdy was only a casing. Inside lay a chunk of flesh that has scar marks, scabs and bleeding wounds that’s been cut ever since the divorce. Alexsandr Senaviev is finally repairing his broken home by facing what needs to be mended. And he doesn’t need to do it alone.

“Maxim,” He dials a friend rather than a comrade, “Get Lera and the boys out. We’re going out for dinner and we can sit out on the balcony.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 'Day 31 - Embrace' is  
[posted as a separate entry.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21276992)


End file.
